To Build A Home
by Blissfully Different
Summary: Between the cases that made their name, there were the moments that made them a family. Bits and pieces from the first five years of cohabitation on Baker Street.
1. Contact

A/N: I did my best to britpick it myself based only on a semester abroad and whatever knowledge I could glean from the interwebs. Feel free to rip it apart in the reviews.

**CONTACT**

"I believe I may have sustained a concussion," Sherlock said, as if that explained why he had unceremoniously laid on the couch beside John and placed his head on his lap like a dog. John didn't look up from the book he was holding, but used his other hand to card a hand absently through Sherlock's wavy locks.

For whatever reason, Sherlock had switched barbers and had come home three weeks ago with a haircut that tested every fibre of muscle in John's face from breaking out into a hysterical grin. It looked as though every single curl on the detective's head had been snipped off and had left him with puffy, frizzy hair more commonly seen on an ungroomed poodle than on a man's head. John had taken a mental picture and still reflected on it occasionally after a long day at the surgery or after a particularly unsettling case, and it frequently raised his spirits.

The look of defiance and anger, as though Sherlock was daring John to laugh, had mingled with horrified embarrassment. John had managed to keep a straight face until after he had returned from the bottom drawer of the linen cupboard. "At least you've got a hat," he choked, tossing the deerstalker hat at the disgruntled detective, at which point he croaked out laughter. Sherlock's nostrils had flared, his lips had pinched together and he had fled to his room where he remained for the next two days. Before he made it, however, John had caught sight of Sherlock's cheeks lighting up like a traffic light. It was with astonishment that he had just been privy to what he had thought was an act Sherlock was mentally and biologically incapable of.

It had grown out a bit and didn't look as bad if Sherlock put mousse in it, but the curls were hesitant to return, and he had to admit, he kind of missed them though he couldn't figure out why.

"John, did you hear me? I have a concussion!" Sherlock insisted, though he hadn't moved an inch. John flipped a couple of pages forwards and wondered if he would have time to finish the chapter before his flatmate started huffing.

Unlikely.

Sherlock hadn't been outside for so much as fetching the paper in over three days, and John was mildly interested in what excuse Sherlock would make up for why he believed he had suffered a concussion.

"Perhaps your brain threw itself against your skull in an attempt to evacuate your body," John quipped, marking his page before setting the book down.

So far he had been quite accommodating in his attempts to quell Sherlock's dignity, but this being the fourth time in a month, John was beginning to wonder why either of them were going through the motions of this ruse anymore.

When John had come into the flat one day, three months previous, to find the shade's drawn, the lights off and a very faint underlying scent of vomit, he'd immediately sympathised with the huddled whimpering mass on the sofa. He had curled into a ball beneath a black sheet and, upon hearing him enter the room, flipped over twice as if to make his miserable presence known.

John didn't dare ask the question of what was wrong, for he knew, and could guess what kind of snark he could expect by pointing out the obvious. Instead he set down the meagre bag of groceries and went to check the dark kitchen for chamomile tea. Using his mobile as a light, he flipped on the kettle while trying to avoid making any noise. When he'd finished preparing the tea and adding a small bit of ginger, he set it on the floor in front of his best friend and pulled the sheet gently back to his neck. He ignored the instinct to leave the sad, pitiful man alone and softly ran his fingers through the dishevelled hair, waiting for the shower of abuse bound to follow.

The detective responded with a groan and John paused a moment, uncertain if it had been a pleasant or miserable noise. "John," Sherlock had sounded… strange. "Are you familiar with the pressure points capable of relieving a migraine?" Strange wasn't the word… though it certainly fit the situation. No, Sherlock had sounded… embarrassed and needy.

Without responding, he had sat down on the narrowly unoccupied section of the couch and somewhat reluctantly lifted his friend's head and placed it upon his lap. Sherlock's hair wasn't unpleasantly course, nor was it abundantly silky, but it was soft and the warmth coming off of his brow was just enough to be relaxing and slightly make him miss having a dog.

John wasn't sure how long he sat there, alternating between the various techniques he had learned from med school and some he had watched his mother use on his father, who also frequently suffered migraines. Other times he would simply run his hands through his friend's curls. He continued long after Sherlock had fallen asleep, the tea had become cold, and his fingers had become sore. Eventually he had fallen asleep as well and was awoken three hours later to Sherlock pulling on his scarf and coat and telling him they had a case, as if he had never had a migraine at all.

Though the case was what Sherlock deemed to be boring, he had hardly ever seen his friend in better spirits as they ate dinner, even agreeing to get ice cream afterwards. When three weeks later, Sherlock had a repeat occurrence, John didn't hesitate to duplicate his previous ministrations.

Since then, Sherlock had suffered headaches at least twice a month and John had pretended to believe that they were real. Occasionally he would come up with some other excuse, such as vertigo, ear ache or neck strain, but it was always mentioned into John's knee as he pressed his shoulder up against John's thigh and sighed contentedly. He even occasionally made John go through the motions of being a doctor; looking in his ears and eyes, checking his balance and reflexes and palpating the affected areas.

Knowing the benefits of doing this for his flatmate far outweighed any desire to take the piss out of him for it, he'd kept his mouth shut, feeling slightly honoured that Sherlock had deigned to allow someone to touch him in an intimate way and praying Mrs Hudson or Lestrade wouldn't walk in unexpectedly while this was going on.

But he couldn't help being curious if this was something Sherlock really enjoyed or simply allowed to happen occasionally because it helped him to relax.

Sherlock had been sulking quietly for the past minute since his comment, and he quietly complied with his unspoken request for dignity and asked, "What were you doing to give yourself a concussion?"

"I was reaching for a pen beneath my desk when my phone went off and I reacted unfavourably," John was immediately reminded of the car backfire and the boomerang that Sherlock had explained to him in a drugged haze and a slurred voice. The sound of a phone going off wouldn't produce such a jumpy reaction in so elegant and graceful a person unless Irene Adler had come back from the dead and begun texting him once more. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock would have called, texted or shouted for him had he actually needed to have his pen rescued.

"And what makes you think you have a concussion?"

"Simple medical knowledge, John. I'm not wholly unfamiliar with the field, it being closely linked to science after all. I have a headache, dizziness, my ears are ringing and I feel tired."

"Do you feel nauseous?" John asked, trying to hold back the smirk making its way across his face.

"I do."

"Any memory loss?"

"I'm having trouble remembering the atomic weight of zirconium, and I'm unsure if the 87th digit of pi is a four or a two." John managed to hold back a chuckle, but his chest shook from the effort and Sherlock turned to look up at him frowning.

"Those are both critical pieces of knowledge, John. I'll thank you not to mock the minor gaps in my memory."

"Sherlock…" he was full out laughing and his friend sat up in one fluid motion and rolled his legs out in front of him. Clearly an act a concussed man would be capable of without crippling effects…

"What is it, John?"

"Sherlock, are you listing off symptoms that you read off the mayo clinic website?"

For the second time that month he detected a hint of colour in those illustrious cheekbones of his. "Why ever would I do that, John?"

"Because you want me to rub your head, for whatever reason…"

The huffing commenced and John got a kick out of watching Sherlock purse his lips and cross his arms.

"Are you saying that there's nothing wrong with me?" Sherlock asked, shrilly.

Oh, there was something wrong with him, but it wasn't a concussion… John hoped this wasn't going to turn into a full-blown case of Munchausen.

"It's fine, Sherlock… I don't mind doing it. I just don't understand why we have to go through these pretences when you could simply ask me if I would stroke your hair."

"It's not as though I like it! It helps me think, John! Better than nicotine patches, nearly as well as cocaine did… I haven't the slightest clue why, but it has nothing to do with enjoyment. This certainly isn't sentiment, if that's what you're implying!"

Suddenly it became clear as day to him why his friend was so intent on having John touch him. Sherlock, who could see, hear, smell, taste and feel his way to any conclusion had nothing to work with. No great mystery to unfold, no clues to spot, no chemical property to taste, or distinct footsteps to hear. Nothing of any great consequence. Perhaps the first time had been a migraine, but John wondered perhaps if it was more to do with sensory overload than actually suffering any physical pain. Too much information and nothing to focus on was what inevitably drove him to using their flat for target practice.

Having John run fingers through his hair was enough tactile sensation to dull the others. It gave his friend a moment of peace from useless outside distractions, and, at least in the short-term, gave him a sense of calm. John had a horrible rush of guilt at mocking his best friend for wanting something so simple from him that meant so much.

"Come on, then, lay down," he said, using his soothing voice and patting his lap. Sherlock looked at him with distrust and John could have kicked himself for putting it there. The great unknowable Sherlock wasn't the only one that could be a bit obtuse to emotion sometimes. "It's alright, Sherlock, I'm sorry I laughed."

"John," Sherlock said quietly, placing his head in John's lap and allowing him to continue the comforting act. Honestly, John wasn't complaining. The whole thing was relaxing and domestic. It was slowly dawning on him that if this was intimacy, he could stop running himself ragged trying to find it in the bed of the nearest girl. "I don't really think I have a concussion."

"I had gathered as much 'Lock. It's okay."

"It really does help me think, though."

"I know Sherlock."

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"I miss my curls."

"Me too, Sherlock. Me too."


	2. Irrational Fears

A/N: All chapters will exist within the same universe but will be told out of order. Bit like canon, really...

**IRRATIONAL FEARS**

John wasn't afraid of the dark. He wasn't. He didn't sleep with the curtains open so that the light from the street lamps could filter through the room, and he certainly didn't keep three different torches in his bedside drawer for emergencies; he was a big fan of shadow puppets, okay?

So when the power went out, John was absolutely fine. He wasn't clinging to his pillow or muttering "there's nothing to be afraid of," under his breath or anything.

Even if he was, this wasn't normal darkness with just the lights out. This was solid citywide not-a-light-to-be-seen darkness. This was soul consuming blackness that was going to eat John's soul.

But as previously stated, John wasn't afraid of the dark. He definitely wasn't going to grab the torch and venture downstairs, because that would be childish. John was an army doctor for Christ sakes. And even if he didn't have his glowing green watch to ward off the darkness or a room full of other people's breath to stave off his fears, he didn't need those things. Because there was nothing to fear. And certainly not darkness.

It was wintertime though. And if the power was out then that meant the heat was also out. And with that realization came an onslaught of cold. The kind that caused the blood to freeze in his veins and a nervous sweat to break out on his lower back. Certainly what he was feeling was cold...

"Sod this..." John whispered aloud. It would be irrational to go downstairs because of a fear of the dark (which John most assuredly did not possess) but if there was no heat, he would need to start a fire. Sherlock had a torch lighter somewhere in his room, which would certainly be more efficient than the pack of matches that John kept in his emergency kit. Sherlock wouldn't mind waking up for a few moments to help him find it, right?

Grabbing a torch from the drawer, he gripped it tightly, wiping the cold sweat off his hands before turning it on and proceeding down the steps. He really wasn't scared at all by the way the light cast eerie shadows over everything in the room and he definitely didn't half run to Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock?" he spoke quietly, and noticed how quiet it was without the sounds of electricity humming throughout their flat. What he didn't notice, not even slightly, was the sound of fear in his voice that was in no way slightly similar to how he had sounded when he'd thought he'd been trapped in a laboratory with a giant murderous hound. No siree!

"Sherlock!?" his voice was clear and strong. No cracking similar to a pubescent boy's to be found in John Watson's tone!

"Joh... mnn?" Sherlock squinted, raising a hand against the harsh light of John's torch and the ex-soldier lowered it a bit, stepping closer to the bed. "What is it?"

"Umm, the power's out and its negative 1 out tonight. I thought it might be wise to build a fire before we both freeze to death."

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes, the expression of curiosity and aggravation melting off to form confusion before his lips quirked up suddenly and he seemed as wide awake as he had three hours previous.

"John, it's gas heat... which realistically you should know considering you're the one that handles the bills every month," Sherlock had that look, that bloody smarmy look that John hated so much. The 'we both know what's going on here' look that bothered him even more when he knew exactly what it meant.

"Ah... right. Suppose that's... that's true. Um. Right. Well then, I guess I don't have to start a fire."

Sherlock's look turned into something a bit more genuine and tad more benign.

"I suppose..." he took a deep breath that was not shaky, nor was it filled with defeat. "I suppose I woke you up for nothing then. My apologies, Sherlock."

"Think nothing of it, John," Sherlock had pursed his lips together and his nostrils flared a bit, obviously not because he was amused though. Certainly not. What could he possibly have been amused about? It was a simple mistake.

"Right... Well, I suppose... I'll just head back to bed then," he tossed his torch from one hand to the other and shuffled his feet a bit.

"Seems the thing to do." Sherlock's smile grew by about an inch.

"Alright... well..." he took a step backwards towards the door. "Off I go..."

"Cheerio,"

"Well. Sweet dreams. Hopefully no sleepwalking tonight, wouldn't want you to trip in the dark..."

Sherlock huffed and John could read that disregarding sound as "I could find my way through London blind and not stumble once,"

"Well, goodnight then," he took two steps back, feeling behind him for the door handle.

"Goodnight John."

He opened the door, paused a moment and then stepped out.

"Oh, while I'm here..." he paused in the doorway and poked his head and his torch back in the room when suddenly the light flickered. Once. Twice. Out.

"MMPH..." was a high-pitched noise, but it was not uttered by John Watson. No, that noise had arisen spontaneously. Possibly from a creaky floorboard or a ghost that had chosen that very moment to make its presence known.

"John?"

"Ye-AH?"

"Take two steps forward," John reluctantly released his death grip from the doorway and did as Sherlock asked. "Turn to your left, and walk towards my voice."

"Sherlock?"

"Right, I'm just here, not two steps more, mind the shoes to your right," he heard the shifting of Sherlock's body and followed the sound. John felt his knees touching the edge of the bed and without his consent his arms flailed out in search of his best friend. Sherlock deftly snatched his hand from the air which did not produce a decidedly shrill whimper from John's vocal cords.

Dropping the useless torch and using his other arm to guide his way into the bed, he laid down, making sure to keep at least twenty-five percent contact between his and Sherlock's body at all times. For a rational reason that John would think of tomorrow...

When he had settled, he found his body unable to relax at all and he lay stiff as board with his body pressed up against his flatmate's. He felt a heavy arm settle over his waist.

"John?"

What came out of his mouth was by no means a squeak.

"I'm right here, alright? It will all be just fine."

Finally, seeing no way that he could lose even one more shred of dignity, he flipped over and clutched the detective franticly, clinging to his waist, burying his nose against the man's t-shirt, all the while taking great gulping breaths of air.

In the pitch darkness, he could not see, but he could make out the faint scent of his flatmate; of his shampoo, his soap, laundry detergent, toothpaste, the aftershave which lingered on his sheets. And something that was distinct, noticeable and comforting all at once. He could feel the detective's lithe form next to him, surprisingly warm and not as firm as he had expected. He clung to the man's t-shirt and tried to calm the spasms in his back and stomach, glad for the darkness if only to hide the niggling embarrassment and shame.

"You're alright, John. Shh… Don't fret. Everyone's afraid of something."

Sherlock was making calming shushing noises and it struck him as remarkable that Sherlock even knew what to do when someone was upset, and that the man hadn't pushed him away yet; had actually invited him into his bed. He felt his best friend wrap one arm around his back and entangle the other in John's rather short hair.

"What of you, then?" John asked, his pulse starting to slow and his breaths coming less frantically. "What are you afraid of?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, and John didn't truly expect that he would. After nearly a minute, he felt the warmth of Sherlock's breath on his ear and heard his response. "Enclosed spaces..."

Perhaps it was because he was divested of that great desire to seem brave that, within five minutes he was actually able to relax for the first time that night. More likely, it was because Sherlock was close enough to be attached to him, speaking reassurances into his ear in a soft baritone and rubbing circles into his back. Whatever the reason, for once that entire night, John actually felt some of his fears ebb away and a great exhaustion settle over him that allowed him to drift off.


	3. Birthday

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed. I've been working on this for so long I'm rather nervous about posting, so thanks to everyone for giving this a read!

**BIRTHDAY**

40. God help him, he was 40-years-old today. Lying in bed that morning, John felt every day of it. Of course, the body aches, headache and nausea were more to be accounted for by the pub crawl he'd been on the previous night with a few of his old rugby mates than age seeping in. Groaning, he rolled over on his side practically panting and jerked wildly as his alarm sounded. He wasn't sure the forty-five minutes he'd given himself to get ready for work would be enough today.

He staggered to his feet, listening to his pulse throb in rhythm with the throbbing in his head and cracked his neck. He couldn't rightly remember getting in the previous night. He wondered if Sherlock had solved the case he'd been feverishly working on for the past four days now.

He showered, not feeling up to a morning wank, and thought about how he had spent his birthday this time ten years ago. Certainly he'd been hung over then as well, but he couldn't imagine he had felt this awful then. He was covered in scrapes and bruises, most-likely from stumbles and falls. He wasn't particularly concerned; this was sometimes the case after a night of heavy drinking, but was still rather embarrassing.

He'd been living with a different flatmate then: Henry. The most boring sod he'd ever had the misfortune to know. He left John alone though. Hadn't bothered him with complaints about the telly being too loud, or for leaving crumbs in the butter or any such nonsense, and what more could you really ask for in a flatmate? He snorted, letting out a light chuckle and wincing at the same time as he thought about it.

How was it possible that at 40 years old, his life was ten times less boring than it had been at 30? Certainly he'd been able to hold his liquor better then, and he'd had a serious girlfriend at the time, but he couldn't really look back on his life then and call it his heyday.

Still, he'd spent nearly every birthday since he'd turned 25 waxing nostalgic over some imagined past that had been a mite bit better than his present and he'd likely spend this one doing the same. Jenny. That had been her name. Had she not cheated on him with her yoga instructor Kevin, he might have married her.

They really hadn't had much in common, and there may have been a bit of spite intended towards her when he enlisted, knowing how she despised violence, but he was fairly sure that, at the time, he'd at least believed that it was love. He tried to imagine how that would have worked out, had she not cheated.

He imagined blonde, blue eyed children that looked like their mother and a birthday that involved breakfast in bed and no hangover. Why was it that he was also imagining Sherlock barging into his bedroom and insisting that frivolous birthdays aside, there was a case that needed to be solved? Those two realities would never meet. Perhaps his fiftieth birthday then.

But even the manufactured tranquillity of a make-believe family didn't feel right. In all honesty, he liked the strange little family he had now. And he couldn't properly call to mind a situation in which he had enjoyed the company of children.

He felt a bit better after he'd washed up, thrown up, and dressed himself. He couldn't quite face real clothes just yet and pulled on a dressing gown over boxers.

He came into the living room and nearly turned around and went back upstairs, called off work and went back to sleep. The urge was nearly insurmountable after seeing four chickens wandering around their flat.

Sherlock was seated on the couch, watching them with that intense gaze he normally reserved for dead bodies. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he paused midway in the middle of a 'what the fucking hell is this shit?' expression and decided he already knew how this conversation was going to play out.

"They'll be gone by the time I get home from work, and you're cleaning up any mess they make," John announced loudly by way of greeting.

"Good morning, John. Feeling any better?"

"I feel a bit like refried beans, currently," John said, and then regretted it. Right, paracetamol… tea… water… toast with butter and jam. In that order. Now.

He turned to grab the paper from their shared work desk/dining room table and found exactly those items laid out in his usual spot, in the order in which they would be received. "Did Mrs Hudson do this?"

"Hmm, I did." Sherlock didn't look up to witness John's stunned look, but as always, knew just the same. "Close your mouth, John..."

"What? Why… how…?" Of course, he'd been hung over enough times that Sherlock could have noticed his routine if he actually cared to, but… why would he?

"I've been busy with the case… may have overlooked your birthday a bit, I'm afraid. Hope this will do until I've come to some conclusion on the chickens."

John stood there, wondering if he was still drunk. Not unlikely, as he'd consumed enough the previous night. He couldn't remember anything after his seventh pint, but he didn't imagine he'd feel as shitty as he did now if he'd stopped then.

"I… honestly didn't think you'd remember, Sherlock," John said, utterly shocked and pleased by this turn of events.

"I didn't."

John deflated a bit. "Oh. Mrs Hudson remind you then?"

"You don't remember?" Sherlock seemed a bit amused by this information, and John had a sinking feeling he was too hung over to understand.

"I don't remember leaving the pub last night. I'm happy I made it home at all."

Sherlock's hands came up to try and cover the smirk on his face. Oh bloody hell…

"You do have a proclivity for blacking out, that's right. I'd nearly forgotten your cousin's wedding…" Unsurprising; Sherlock had nearly been as blitzed as he had.

His head pounded harder, but he still couldn't recall any of the details. Just felt a deep-seated feeling of shame and fear. "Right, let's have it then. What kind of new and humiliating form of wretchedness have I managed now?"

"You begged me not to tell," Sherlock said, seeming to actually be trying not to seem as though he were taking enjoyment from this.

"What?"

"You kept moaning, 'Sherlock, please, it's my birthday tomorrow. Don't take the piss,' right before you vomited on a pair of $400 dollar shoes. I only promised you I'd try not to enjoy the look of horror that you're wearing now. I suspect you'll want to make a few apologetic phone calls, though, once you've replaced your phone."

John cringed, reeling from this revelation. "Where is my phone?"

"Bottom of the Thames by now. You threw it after you were unable to persuade your most recent ex-girlfriend to have birthday sex with you. You can take my old blackberry if you'd like."

"Oh…" John sank to his chair, feeling the full weight of shame, misery and sickness crash over him. As if that wasn't enough, he sat bolt upright and looked at Sherlock with horror-filled eyes.

"Please, please for the love of God, tell me I didn't call Sarah…" It had been bad enough seeing her at work after they had broken up. He didn't want to think about how awkward him drunkenly begging her for sex would be…

"She was a bit more understanding than I would have given her credit for. She told me to let you have the day off. Said she'd had a bit of a fit on her 35th and not to worry too much about it."

He let out a bit of a breath. One less thing to worry about. "Start from the beginning. Try and honour my wishes and not be too gleeful about it."

"I'll try my very hardest, John." John put his head on the table and then jerked up as he felt one of the ruddy chickens peaking at his ankle.

"Go on, eat your breakfast. You'll probably want to be in the foetal position for this anyway…"

With a shuddering breath, he did as he was told, knowing if he put off his hangover ritual any longer he'd be dead for the weekend. He tried not to feel too much self-pity but he couldn't help but moan as he laid down on the couch beside his flatmate, his head shamelessly flopping onto Sherlock's thigh. He was a bit surprised to feel his best friend pull a hand through his hair a few times in a rather soothing manner.

"Right… your friend Hornsby called me around 1 to let me know you were making a right arse out of yourself at the pub, and that you'd mentioned me enough times that he thought I should come out and join them all. I was still working on the case, but after twelve phone calls of you singing into the phone it didn't seem likely I would be able to get anything more done. You do have a rather nice voice, though, John, I will say that. I swear to God, though, if it hadn't been your birthday, I would have strangled you after you sang that bloody bubbles song through the night."

Odd… John didn't even follow football.

"By the time I'd chased you down, you were sloshed out of your skull, and locked in a fierce discussion with a man three times your size. I couldn't follow it all that well, but I think you were debating how many five-year-olds you could take on if a thousand of them attacked you at once. You were insisting that no one would be able to take on all of them. Bludge, I believe his name was, thought differently. "

"Oh Christ… No real bodily harm… I suppose I managed to talk my way out of that one."

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "Oh no, you most certainly did not. In fact, you started a bar fight."

"WHAT?" he cried, his head shooting up and then pounding so deeply that John could hear the blood pulsing in his ears. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair again, and he slumped back into a small ball.

"Yes, you actually took on quite a few people. Do your fists feel a bit sore?" They did in fact. John hadn't noticed how scraped and bruised they were until this moment though. "Based on what I saw last night, you'd be a formidable opponent if a group of angry five year olds should ever present themselves.

"After we got out of there, you got a bit rambunctious. You kept trying to climb onto cabs and surf your way home, insisting that it would cheaper than paying the fare. Oh, and then you got hungry and made us walk twenty-three blocks to your favourite kebab shop that was open 24 hours. On the way there is when you started making the phone calls. I believe the phone may have "slipped" out of your hands while you were urinating off of the Tower Bridge."

"Dare I ask what we were doing on the Tower Bridge?"

"You made us stand there for half and hour and wait for it to open so that you could test your balancing abilities. There were no ships around, so I'm not certain why you believed that it would…"

John had to admit, despite the absurdity of what he was hearing, he felt a bit sad that he couldn't remember it. His lunacy aside, it sounded like it must have been fun at the time. His thirtieth birthday paled in comparison.

"You finally agreed to let me take you home, but then you got into the scotch and started toasting to strange things. I won't repeat them, they were fairly embarrassing."

John didn't protest. Scotch did have that effect on him.

"I had to wrestle the bottle out of your hands, but by that point you were sloppy and maudlin and it didn't take too much prying to get it away from you. You told me how much you loved every solitary thing in your life. And rest assured, you didn't leave it to the imagination. Except you didn't love Anderson or asparagus. You were emphatic about that, and I couldn't help but agree. Then you proceeded to throw up all over yourself, so I got you changed and put you to bed, no worse for wear."

That last part had him blushing furiously. Forty years old and he wasn't even able to make it to the bathroom to vomit. What a disgrace. "I'm so unbelievably sorry, Sherlock. I will have your shoes cleaned, and I will somehow find a way to make this up to you."

"Honestly, I thought it was rather brilliant… With the exception of the drive home. You sang Bohemian Rhapsody the entire way and started over every time you messed up."

"Did you at least do the ensemble parts?" John asked, inexplicably amused by the notion.

"Of course I did the ensemble parts. What kind of friend would I have been if I hadn't done the ensemble parts?"

"High-pitched?"

"Is there any other way to sing Bohemian Rhapsody?"

"Are you making all of this up because you know that I can't remember any of last night?"

"Just the last part about the ensemble parts. My voice is far too low to accompany you. You did them yourself."

John smirked, but as they drifted off into silence, watching the four chickens milling around their living room (John couldn't summon up enough curiosity to ask, knowing the answer as ever would be 'it's for a case') he couldn't help but feel like, if ever there was a day to be introspective, it was today. Middle aged... Was he? Would he live to see 80 running through the streets chasing murderers? Being chased by murderers?

"I used to spend my birthdays thinking about what I'd done with my life so far… What I had achieved. How I wanted my life to look come next birthday."

"We're going to talk about feelings now, how wonderful."

"Shut it," John said, before continuing. "Oddly enough, I can't think of what I would want for myself next year. I'd always expected myself to have a wife and kids by now. I can't see it anymore. I can't find the desire for a future like that. The domesticity would drive me insane. I suppose if I could find a woman who wasn't sent running for the hills after meeting you I might settle down with her, but… I would miss the cases too much to have children."

"Good, you'd be a horrible father," Sherlock said nonchalantly, and John looked up at him in dismay, but realised that Sherlock hadn't stopped watching the chickens through their entire conversation. "Honestly, John. The things you allow me to get away with? They'd be utterly spoilt. Of course, my influence would hardly help anything."

At John's silence, Sherlock once again ran a hand through his hair. "John, I'm joking of course. You know I think you would be a wonderful father." Something in Sherlock's voice said that he had actually been genuine in that.

"I've just about got this case wrapped up. You should get a few more hours of sleep and then we'll go someplace nice for your birthday. Would you like that?" Sherlock asked.

"So long as you mean somewhere that serves food. With you, 'nice' generally means a place where there are more dead bodies than living ones…" They shared a laugh and Sherlock went back to rubbing his head. John could see why he enjoyed it so much.

The black and white spotted chicken became increasingly loud and John looked up to get a rather graphic understanding of the process of egg laying. It looked quite painful, actually. He was rather glad that Sherlock hadn't made him eggs for breakfast.

They heard a loud cluck, the sound of the egg dropping to the floor and suddenly Sherlock jumped to his feet. "The scots grey! It was the nanny!"

John didn't bother asking, but Sherlock launched into a discussion, picking up the egg. "Eugh!" He cried, cutting himself off as he dropped it to the floor. "It's wet! And warm!"

John nearly pissed himself laughing.


	4. Exposed

A/N: Wow, what a great response! Thanks everyone. Alright, bit of a short one. Of course, size isn't everything…

EXPOSED

"Why are you naked?" John asked, raising his eyebrows and taking a bite of his toast. He'd seen Sherlock do enough strange things that this ranked rather low on the list. Somewhere between him dressing up as a Buckingham Palace guard and him suspending himself from their ceiling upside down in constraints from which he'd been unable to escape and had passed out until John had come home and gotten him down.

"Social experiment," Sherlock told him matter-of-factly, peering into the fridge and coming away with a mince pie Mrs Hudson had left for them, not even bothering to heat it before taking a bite.

"You mean 'see how strange you can act in front of your flatmate before he moves out' experiment," he corrects, staring impassively. "I'm a military doctor. Did you expect me to choke on my tea and blush like a school girl?"

Sherlock smirked at him, then scowled at his breakfast, popping the remainder of the mince pie in the microwave without even a plate beneath it.

"You sure you want to do that? I think the last thing that was in there was a sheep bladder…" John told him, staring at his back. "Though seeing you now, I really don't want to discourage you from eating."

He was much skinnier than he really ought to be. John could just make out the traces of his ribs beneath a bit of skin and muscle. The man barely had an arse at all.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured, turning to make himself some tea. "You're making your staring quite apparent. Indicates a comfortableness with your own heterosexuality, yet you're constantly reaffirming that fact with others. Does that make mean that you're more comfortable in the privacy of our home where you don't feel as though your sexuality is in question? Or that you're becoming more at ease in general with the idea that others may regard you as gay?"

John took about seven seconds to revel in the absurdity of the situation, before turning towards Sherlock and smiled wryly. "Do you really need me to dignify that with an answer? I've just explained to you that I don't find your nudity offensive. Must we psychoanalyse this?"

"I feel most comfortable naked. I've waited three months until you've come to appreciate that I have quite a few quirks and am measuring them individually to see which will be most troublesome to you. Your feedback is appreciated," Sherlock told him, pulling the pie out of the microwave where it had exploded out of its shell and tossing it in the rubbish bin without bothering to clean the mess.

"Yes, well, I don't particularly care, but if Mrs Hudson comes up here you may actually give her a heart attack. Do at least wear something, would you?" John told him, taking a last bite before getting to his feet, pulling on his shoes and grabbing his coat. "Be back around three. Should I prepare myself for another revelation? Perhaps an interest in dressing in ladies clothing? Honestly, Sherlock, you've got the legs for heals, but you might want to get a pedicure before you go out in them," he said, only half joking. His toes really were atrocious.

Sherlock scowled, but looking closer, John realised that it wasn't a scowl at all; it was the face he made when he was deducing something he'd never seen before. John locked eyes with him, smiling that same amused smile and watched the stream of emotions crossing his flatmate's face.

First confusion, then surprise and full out shock .Finally his eyebrows furrowed and he broke out in the broadest smile John had ever seen.

And John knew that Sherlock had finally gotten it. It was all fine.


	5. Sick

A/N: I adore each and every one of you who's reviewed this so far. I have loyal readers? Wow… Anyway, I've got quite a bit more written, so stick around and enjoy the shameless fluff.

**SICK**

John couldn't remember having felt so crappy since his shoulder wound had become infected shortly after being shot. He was feverish, shaking, sweating, colder than he'd ever felt and struggling to keep drawing air into his lungs. Worst of all, Sherlock was glaring at him as though he'd meant to fall into the Thames in hot pursuit of the jewel thief they had been trying to apprehend.

"I don't know why you insisted on coming, John. You're a doctor; you really ought to know better." Sherlock scolded him on their way up the stairs to their flat. His head was filled with pocket lint and spare change, but he'd tuned in every so often to realise that Sherlock had spent the entire cab ride home telling him off.

He tuned out again, knowing if he continued to listen to his flatmate chew him out while sick with the flu and borderline hypothermic he was fairly sure that he would punch him. Or worse.

John swallowed and could feel his throat give an angry protest that he had originally thought was from swallowing water but now expected was just a sore throat that decided to wait until he was at his most miserable to make its presence known.

He veered off towards the bath with the evil git he lived with hot on his trail and, after being thwarted by Sherlock's foot in his attempt to slam the door in the man's face, begrudgingly turn his back. He shed the three shock blankets he had been given by Lestrade to try to retain some body heat on the way home carelessly. The bottom two were soaked through and the last was damp. He kicked on the shower to get it warmed up but that set Sherlock off on another tirade and he sat down hard on the toilet with his head in his hands, trying to fill his lungs for the first time in an hour and a half. He felt no less cold now than he had after being fished out of the river, but the shock and adrenalin from the experience was fading out and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to stay awake for.

He snapped out of his daze to find Sherlock frowning as he tugged at John's shoe, hearing it peel off with a squelch and feeling a rush of cold hit him as he twisted the sock off. Turning towards the tub, he realised that Sherlock had turned off the spray and was drawing him a bath.

"-your training is rather pointless if a bit of shock makes you forget the majority of it. I'm surprised you made it out of Afghanistan with just a hole in your shoulder." John heard this through the loud thrum of his teeth clicking and his ears ringing.

He resiliently ignored that last quip and allowed the man to undo his other shoe while he got himself rather tangled up in his soaking wet jumper which seemed to have sopped up half the river, weighed a ton and clung to everything.

He'd gotten one arm out of it before it became hopelessly tangled around his torso and head. "Would you mind…" his voice, used for the first time since they'd left the failed crime scene seemed remarkably hoarser than he last remembered it. He was rather surprised by how gingerly the jumper was removed from over his head, but when his vision was returned to him, the anger that had been written all over the younger man's face was still in place.

His hands were slapped away before he'd gotten a firm grip on the collar of his button down shirt and he was quickly divested of that as well as his flimsy vest. At that, Sherlock left the room, returned thirty seconds later with another blanket, this time wool that he wrapped around John's shoulders with a glare.

He felt rather than saw the enigma tugging on the cuffs at his ankles. "I can manage them myself, thanks," he admit, which seemed to infuriate Sherlock more and he quickly took his leave.

He had been in the gloriously warm water for seven minutes when Sherlock returned, failing to acknowledge John's obvious discomfort at the intrusion. John had seen Sherlock naked at least a dozen times in the seven months they'd been flatmates and knew that modesty wasn't one of the man's virtues. He wouldn't have cared so much if Sherlock weren't towering over him, still wearing a livid expression on his face. Sick and weak as he was, it was rather intimidating.

He barely made eye contact with him, merely scowling his continued disapproval and hissing the word 'idiot' as he laid down a towel, a pair of pyjamas and John's dressing gown on the lid of the toilet and set a steaming cup of tea on the lip of the tub.

Stunned, John didn't even get a chance to say thank you before Sherlock was once again out of the room. He took a hesitant sip of tea and almost melted back into the tub. He took his tea with two sugars and a splash of milk. Except when he was cold, or sick or just needed a bit of comfort, in which case he let himself have it just as sweet and milky as he could make it. And that's precisely how Sherlock had prepared it.

Warmed, comforted and sleepy, he forced himself out of the tub after he'd washed up and stumbled into his pyjamas and dressing gown. He flopped onto the sofa, aching but appreciative of the fire that Sherlock had built for him. He curled up in the wool blanket again and lay down beside Sherlock who was sitting in the corner, still sulking.

"So irresponsible, John... Lestrade will blame me for this, I hope you know. Everyone will."

John clenched his jaw, trying, trying hard to tune it out.

"I told you you weren't looking up to it,"

Shut up, Sherlock.

"I asked you if you thought you could handle it."

Fuck off, you great sodding git!

"I informed you of exactly what we were looking at, and you still insisted."

The tortured agony of guilt, anger, frustration and sickness swirled through him like a cascading wave of misery.

"You need to learn the difference between being brave and being foolish, John. Another instance like this one and I won't let you come with me at all. You've made me really question whether you can handle the work that we do."

He could feel treacherous tears of frustration welling up in his eyes.

"I'm disappointed in you, John. I hope you know that…"

"SHUT UP, SHERLOCK!" John would have yelled if not for the hoarseness of his voice. "I'm bloody sorry that I ruined your case; that I let him get away. I feel terrible for it, I truly do, but I've already apologised and you rubbing it in isn't making me feel any better. Don't you care at all that I'm sick and cold and in pain, you heartless bastard?"

They both descended back into stunned silence at his outburst, except for a few sobs of misery that John hadn't been able to help letting out. He was just feeling so wretched, so unbelievably desolate; he couldn't take having it forced in his face when he was already in so much discomfort.

"Don't care?" Sherlock asked, his voice finally missing the element of disgust and anger as he gathered up another armful of blanket, shutting off the lights that had been burning into John's retinas, leaving him bathed in orange glow of firelight. "Haven't you been listening all night?"

"Of course I've been listening, you arse. You've spent the past hour chewing me out for losing the jewel thief. Honestly, Sherlock, the man was two metres tall, has bright red hair and wears an eye patch. If the bloody Met can't find him they're as incompetent as you make them out to be."

"John…" the softness in his voice was so unexpected his neck ached with protest as he whipped it to look at his flatmate, sitting up weakly as his friend joined him once more on the sofa. "I wasn't upset about McDougal getting away… You thought I was mad at you for ruining the case? You're right, of course the Met will get him, we gathered enough evidence to convict even if the jewels aren't recovered, and even if he hadn't gotten away it didn't make a shred of difference to me. I was mad because you could have died tonight at your own idiocy. If it had been me, you would be just as angry, John, admit it."

He tried to review Sherlock's complaints throughout the night, but instead could only focus on the fact that he had spent the entire night helping him from the time he'd hauled him out of the Thames and gotten him home to the assistance with his jumper and the cup of tea. Of course it had been concern. How had he managed to misread the situation so badly?

"You think I care more about the criminal class of London than I do you? John, come now. I hope this is just the fever inhibiting your mental faculties. You're usually much smarter than this," Sherlock said, sprawling slightly behind him and pulling John's shaking and shivering body backwards to rest against his chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his quivering frame and spread the blanket over them both. John chose that moment to pass out, from shock, surprise or tiredness he couldn't be sure. In the morning, waking alone on the couch, he would wonder if it had been a dream.


	6. Haircut

HAIRCUT

"You cut your own hair, correct?" Sherlock asked, his head dangling inches from the floor. He was sitting upside-down in his chair, his stocking feet hanging over the back and his belly exposed from where his shirt had fallen down.

John couldn't help but smirk at the sight of the man-child in front of him, his cheeks turning pink as the blood rushed to them. He was pretending not to notice him from behind the newspaper, if only to hide his amusement. John wondered if Sherlock was doing some kind of experiment or if he was just feeling particularly immature today.

"Well, I use clippers. There's really no skill involved in the matter…" John replied, observing the younger man's hair. Since the incident at the barber shop, he hadn't had a haircut in well over six months. His hair had grown back in the way it had been, and then continued to grow until his head was a mess of curls. His fringe had overtaken his face and was frequently in his eyes, not quite long enough that he could part it behind his ears. In this regard, the sitting position actually made some degree of sense.

He had to admit though, it was a good look for him, if a bit less than professionally dignified as John knew the younger man to be. He had wondered if the hair would grow downward or outward and was a bit disappointed that it resembled that of a movie star rather than a jewfro. He'd been getting more looks lately, specifically from women (one of which being John's current girlfriend, much to his displeasure) and seemed to feel rather uncomfortable with the attention.

"Could you cut mine, do you think?" John had to stop and think about it. He'd cut hair before, though generally nothing as long and complicated as Sherlock's. He didn't want a repeat of the last time.

"While I'm honoured by your trust in me, I really think you should go to a professional this time. Or grow it out. I'd rather not be responsible for you losing your curls again. I've only cut short hair before…"

Sherlock sighed, flipping his legs to the side and settled across the arms of the chair but still with his hair hanging backwards so as not to obscure his vision. "My original barber retired. He'd been cutting my hair since I was in nappy's so I suppose I'm not fully surprised. He told me that his nephew worked in Southwark, so I thought maybe he'd share some of his uncle's prowess. I suppose I should have been forewarned by the fact that a men's haircut cost 11 pounds, but I know very little about the profession…"

John wanted to snort at the idea of his straight-laced friend, dressed in expensive impeccably tailored clothing and consistently clean shaven sitting in a barbershop that probably had televisions showing a rugby match in the back.

"Perhaps you should try out a new look, then. Eventually it'll grow long enough in the front that you'll be able to part it to the side. Maybe you could grow out a beard."

"It grows in in patches, I'm afraid. And the hair is red…"

John burst into giggles he couldn't contain and fell to the side, curling up in a heap of shaking, barely supressed laughter and waiting for his best friend to attack him. Sherlock launched on top of him and beat him over the head with the union jack pillow until John gained the strength to tackle him around the waist and flip him to the floor. Surprisingly short and stocky was a fairly good match for long and lithe. It was play fighting, but John was determined he was going to pin his nutter flatmate and they went at it for nearly ten minutes, which, if you think about it, was actually a rather long time.

In the end, stamina and precision won out over strength and will power, and John looked up at the wild gleam in Sherlock's eyes from where he was straddling him and noted that, from below, his eyes seemed almost yellowish. He shook himself off from the reverie and bucked his hips upward, catching Sherlock off guard and rolling him over, grabbing him under the knees and pushing them forward until he had a full pin.

After a few moments, the detective ceased struggling and met John's eyes. "Have you ever noticed how wrestling tends to be the most homoerotic of sports?"

John jumped to his feet and knew a second later he'd been had. Flopping onto the couch, he sighed. "Bit of a toss-up. You can't forget about doubles luging…"

They settled on the couch together, getting their breath back and allowing their heart rates to return to normal. "What do I do about my hair? I look terrible!" Sherlock automatically flopped onto his side and curled up on John's lap as he was disposed to do and John automatically brushed his fingers through the now long ringlets.

"It really doesn't look that bad, Sher…"

"Yes it does! Everybody is always staring at me, John. Everywhere I go!"

John smirked. Of course the detective had noticed the stares, and oblivious as John knew him to be, he had completely misread the signs. He suspected the man's ego was large enough, however, and wasn't entirely convinced he wouldn't shave his head completely if he thought his hair was making him more sexually appealing.

"Then get a haircut, Sherlock. This isn't that difficult…"

"I've been doing a bit of reading up on hair cutting. I'm afraid it seems a bit unfeasible to take it on myself, but I think if I explained it to you, you might be able to do it," Sherlock told him.

"Sherlock… why don't you just find someone experienced and bring them a picture of how you want it cut? What makes you think that I would be able to do a better job of cutting your hair than someone who does it for a living?"

"Because, John, I trust you." John didn't want to, but Sherlock said things like that to him so rarely that he couldn't help but be a bit touched when he did. And then it suddenly dawned on him.

"This is a ploy!" John announced, convinced. If he hadn't been living with the man for two years now he wouldn't have seen through the surprised and innocent look on Sherlock's face. "For the love of God, Sherlock! How many times do I have to tell you? If you want me to rub your head, just bloody well ask!"

Sherlock pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "No. It doesn't feel as good unless I've somehow manipulated you into doing it."

And that, in a nutshell, was their friendship.


	7. Rumours

A/N: School's starting (collective groan) which means updates will be slower. Endless love to the people who are giving this story their continued support.

**RUMOURS**

"Well, if it isn't London's favourite power couple?" Donovan quipped as they got to the scene. They were standing around a steep precipice overlooking the Thames. Normally this wasn't the type of case that Sherlock would take, it being questionable if there was any foul play involved at all, but Sherlock had spent the week barricaded in his room solving a cold case that had been eluding him and John had agreed to stop pestering him about taking out the rubbish if he agreed to take the first thing Lestrade handed him. Though he wasn't quite as destructive about it, John did in fact get as bored as Sherlock from time to time.

"Yes, lovely, could we skip the cute banter today? I've got a headache," Sherlock admit, scowling darkly. He'd essentially turned his bedroom into a dark room in order to deal with fluorescent paints, and John could see that he was still struggling to adjust to the brightness of daylight.

Donovan rolled her eyes and stalked off. Sherlock wandered off in the direction of the crime scene, not bothering to see if John would follow, as invariably, he would and he did.

"Why is that you never correct people who believe that we're gay?" John asked, a bit perturbed.

"Why on earth would I waste my breath doing that? I can hardly find the desire to continue this conversation, John." He hadn't looked up from examining a thread caught on a bramble through his pocket magnifying glass.

"Because we're not! I think I'd have noticed if we were. I'm having enough trouble trying to diffuse the rumours, but your silence in the matter is making it seem like we're just closeted!"

"John," Sherlock finally looked up, but only for a moment to give him a disapproving glance. "For the record, you vehemently denying a sexual relationship makes it seem like you're hiding something. And I don't know how I could have made it any more clear to you that I have absolutely no interest in the least in what people think of me."

"Oh, that's rubbish and you know it," John scoffed. "You preen around like a peacock in those expensive designer clothes. That coat alone must have cost you a grand…"

"Yes, well, I don't think clients would be very interested in entrusting me with cases if I were wearing jeans and t-shirts."

"You're constantly frustrated by how much attention my blog gets and how little your website does…"

Sherlock moved to examine a footprint and John could tell just how much he was getting to his flatmate by the way his shoulders were stiffening. "Clients, John! Perhaps you've brought in more cases, but the level of sheer drivel I have to sit through! 'My wife is cheating on me,' 'my maid is stealing from me'. It's beyond aggravating. You make me out to be some kind of bloody celebrity. If you don't want people speculating about the nature of our relationship than you shouldn't have brought so much attention to it in the first place!"

John clicked his tongue. He knew Sherlock enjoyed his celebrity status, if not the fallout that came with it. His pride was keeping him from admitting it, but John knew better.

"Yes, well that brings me to my final argument. Quite damning, and I'll be interested in hearing you talk your way out of this one."

Sherlock turned and gave him a glowering look, as always knowing just what John was thinking.

He brought his hands up to his face in aggravation. "Yes, of course. The bloody hat. That ridiculous thing, I swear, if you bring it up once more I will take swift revenge, and you will rue the day you ever laid eyes on it."

"Rue the day… who even talks like that?" John smirked, and almost thought better of taunting him further. "What say you then? You don't care what anyone thinks of you. Why do you care so much about the now iconic Sherlock Holmes hat?"

Sherlock stood up straight, narrowed his eyes to slits, and turned towards where Lestrade and Donovan were standing. A very quick flit of the eyebrows in his direction and John knew he was saying "I warned you." He gave an inward shudder at the thought, never truly being on the receiving end of Sherlock's ire before.

"Case solved. She was walking her dog when they came upon a feral cat. Her dog took off after it and she slipped in the mud and fell down into the ravine. Even you idiots should have been able to figure that out…

"I've got to be off to Barts. Molly's got a fresh stiff with a fascinating necrotizing fasciitis eating into its penis." There was a collective wince all around and Sherlock turned towards John with a pleasant look on his face. "John… I'll see you back at the flat." He stooped down and before John could stagger back, kissed him full on the mouth before trotting off. "Tootles…"

John balked, looking up at the stunned team with horror.

"No, no! It was a joke! He was…" but a hum of chatter had broken out and John knew it was too late. He heard Sally Donovan's cry of triumph and watched as basically the entire congregation began exchanging money.

A buzzing from his pocket alerted him to a text and he scowled down at the screen, imagining Sherlock's cheeky face.

_Start Ruing._


	8. Borrowing

A/N: I have a darker three-shot which I might add to this story or publish individually. I suppose it doesn't much matter. Any preference?

**BORROWING**

The first time it happened, John was late for work. Laundry day had been yesterday, forgone for a case, and all of his good button down shirts were in the wash pile. It was too hot to wear a jumper and he scrambled his brains trying to come up with a solution, knowing he would look like a louse if he pulled a crumpled one out.

Wearing only a pair of trousers, he went down the steps and filled a thermos with coffee the way he liked it and looked around their flat, as though he kept clean shirts in the common areas. Seeing little other choice, he walked into Sherlock's room and, finding his flatmate still asleep, threw open his closet and plucked the first button down he could find off a hanger.

He was shocked at how remarkably well it fit him. A bit too long in the length and sleeves, but he tucked it in and rolled them and didn't bother thinking it over any further, simply making off for the tube.

He got a text as he was leaving the new surgery he'd recently become employed at and saw that Sherlock wanted him to head for Kilburn to meet him for an investigation. No lag time between being a doctor and detective's assistant after all.

He got off at the right stop and followed the sounds of sirens until he could see lights in the distance. He joined Sherlock just as he'd begun making deductions. He was trying to follow along and take in the scene when Sherlock cut himself off in the middle of describing the tool used to cut through the aluminium siding in the house. "You're wearing my shirt!"

John looked up hastily, catching the darting eyes of Lestrade and Clarkson. Quietly, John hissed "yes…"

"Why are you wearing my shirt?" Sherlock looked bowed over and didn't bother to keep his voice down.

"Because all of mine were in the laundry. I'll have it dry cleaned if you'll simply shut _up_."

"It's… it's fine… Right, the siding was probably first penetrated here by a utility knife." John sighed loudly and tried to follow along as Sherlock's voice became faster and more breathless. He wondered if one day he would pass out from lack of oxygen. He seriously hoped he'd be there on that day to witness it.

After Sherlock had established that the burglar was a mere 1.6 metres and immediately got on with the homeless network to keep an eye on any short brown haired men entering any banks as the first course of action would probably have been to open a safety deposit box. They set out, trying to track down the origins of a sedative that had been given to the family's basset hound. On the cab ride, John pursed his lips and glared at the detective.

"Why are you so upset? That's my third favourite shirt and you didn't even ask."

"I was late for work and you were sleeping. You'd rather I wake you up and ask whether I could wear your shirt?"

"No, I was just… surprised. I don't care if you wear my clothes, John. It looks quite sharp on you."

"Well, you would think so, it's your shirt. I'll have it dry cleaned and returned to you. Could you maybe just try and avoid saying things like that in front of people? They're already talking."

Sherlock just scoffed and the conversation was dropped.

He thought he'd made some progress until two months later at Barts. John was shuffling through crime scene photos and beside him, Sherlock was adding ethidium bromide to what he believes to be the burglar's DNA. Moving the sample over the microscope he scowled suddenly, sniffing, his concentration broken.

"John…" he looked up just in time to see Sherlock jump to his feet and bury his nose in his hair, taking a deep inhale.

Had they not been friends and flatmates for nearly two years by this time, he would have staggered backwards in horror and shock. He wasn't sure he liked what it said about him that his only reaction was to ensure there was no one in the room with them.

"You've used my…"

"Yes, I admit it. I'm sure it probably costs you a fortune, but I ran out and didn't remember until I was already in the shower. I won't do it again."

"It's… fine, John. Help yourself to any of my toiletries. What's mine is yours, you know that."

"It's rather bizarre. It's like I can smell you on me all day." They both looked up at the sound of something breaking and saw the wide-eyed look on Molly's face, whose slacks were now stained with coffee. Realizing what she had walked in to hear he turned away to hide a searing blush and couldn't quite control the furious grin that graced his features. He didn't look up, knowing Sherlock was wearing an identical look of humour and to meet his eyes would result in hysterics.

The third time, John had been dragged unknowingly into an all-night stakeout. It was the middle of February and he was huddled in a ball sitting on the balcony of a vacationing Albanian couple, trying to rub some heat into his extremities.

"Why the hell can't we wait inside? You know how to pick locks."

"I left my kit at home. Unless you keep pins in your hair..."

"That was quite clever of you. You knew what we were going out to do, Sherlock. Can I go? I have no reason for being here."

"It's too late now, John. You scaling balconies would be a bit conspicuous; we're trying to be covert here."

"The ambulance coming to treat me for hypothermia and frostbite might attract a bit more attention."

John stopped talking. Just watching his breath puffing out of him made him feel like he was losing more heat. Instead he curled into himself further and hoped morbidly that he would numb over soon. What a miserable way to spend the night. They lapsed into silence, watching and waiting for any movement for over an hour.

"He's speaking to someone on the phone. It's hard to make out what he's saying but he seems to be chastising someone for something," John wasn't even paying attention, his thoughts turning sluggish in his head, but he was fairly sure he'd reached a moderate stage of hyperthermia. He doubted Sherlock would care, and was shocked to hear his voice coming out clearly; not shivering in the slightest.

"John!" he looked up slowly to see the shocked expression on Sherlock's face. "Christ! You're turning blue. Why didn't you say anything?"

"D-didn't t-think y-you'd c-c-care," John whispered. Sherlock looked like he'd just been socked in the gut.

All at once, Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him roughly to his feet. Sherlock slipped out of his long coat and wrapped it around John, buttoning it up and then pulling John to him, making jolting frenzied movements that John suddenly realised were meant to rub heat into him.

"You may be right about that ambulance," his eyes were darting around, surveying their surroundings, thinking through a hundred different scenarios at once. He'd seen the expression before, but it never ceased to amaze him. When he finally locked eyes with John, he was wearing a devious grin.

"Suppose we've really no choice. I'll need your torch, if you don't mind." John dug it out of his jacket pocket and handed it over, worried when he caught sight of the blue hue to his hand.

"Right, can I have the coat back for a moment?" Sherlock asks and John was almost shattered by the concept. He assured himself that the very first thing he did the next day is to go and invest in a coat that would actually keep him warm. Then immediately wondered how he'd gotten along so far in life without coming to this realization sooner. Perhaps Sherlock was right about his levels of intelligence.

His hands shook as he attempted to undo the buttons and Sherlock actually seemed to show remorse for taking it from him. He moved John to the corner of the balcony and pressed his body against his before using the coat as a shroud. John realised what was about to happen a moment before he heard the glass shatter. A moment later Sherlock had the coat wrapped and buttoned around him and he felt like a child with a pile of laundry laid over him, warm from the dryer.

He tried to pretend it wasn't the familiar calming scent he associated with his mad flatmate that had any real bearing on him, but opted not to bother. After all this time, why deny it any longer? He was quite fond of Sherlock, platonic though their relationship was. Irene Adler had been right, but then, so had John. He wasn't gay, but they most certainly were a couple.

A couple of what, he didn't know. Unlike Sherlock, though, he could live with not knowing.


	9. Kiss

A/N: Jury's still out about the three shot, but while I decide, here's something sweet. Sorry, while I do ship these two (my otp, in fact), this is as close to slash as this story will get.

**KISS**

"Tell me something you've never told anybody," Sherlock said, rather unexpectedly one sleepy Thursday night as they lounged on the sofa half paying attention to a documentary on ants.

John shook himself out of his stupor, mulling the question over in his head as he watched a swarm of fire ants devoured a gecko. They'd known each other long enough to ask something this intimate without justification, knew enough about each other that they were comfortable with the other knowing more, and understood they had enough on each other that they wouldn't (and couldn't, really) take the piss.

"Mmm… When I was twelve, I snogged my sister's best friend. She was my first kiss, and when we were done, she looked at me and said 'nope, definitely not into blokes' and started dating my sister." John choked out, finding humour now in what had been one of the most horrifying moments of his life.

Sherlock looked at him and they both descended into fits. "Was that really your first kiss?" Sherlock asked when they'd calmed.

"Aside from school yard pecks, yes, that's what I'd say was my first proper kiss. What about you?" Something sunk in his stomach as he watched the humour fade out of Sherlock's face as he put up his shield, wearing his 'I'm not normal but normal's overrated anyway…" face.

"My cousin kissed me once, under the mistletoe, but I reckon by the look on her face she wasn't doing it by choice," he said, his voice sounding slightly less nonchalant than usual. "It's not something I'd care to get sentimental about, John, so kindly try to stop pitying me so blatantly."

John gave a half-hearted attempt to clear his face, but knew it had shone through. "Do you ever wish you had been kissed? I mean, certainly you've got girls queuing up for the chance. Blokes, too. You could if you wanted to…" John said, letting his admiration and awe slip into his voice.

Sherlock looked suddenly quite wistful. "I've never had any interest in it. It was just something that didn't happen at the proper time and by then I'd written off all relationships. I suppose now I look back and wish I'd at least had that experience. Just one normal thing. I could now, but I think I've waited too long. The moment's passed."

No, it wasn't passed, John thought. Sherlock might still have a lack of interest in relationships, but the man had the right to have a first kiss. Everyone alive deserved as much.

Slipping closer, he watched Sherlock read in his eyes what he was contemplating, gauging the response. "John…?" Sherlock asked, taken aback and somewhat uncomfortable. "I care for you a great deal, but…"

"Oh bugger off," John said, laughing. It was strange, the lack of trepidation, self-questioning, and repellence he felt by the idea. It was just Sherlock, just his mouth. They'd shared utensils before without thinking anything of it. He'd kissed Sherlock's forehead in a comforting manner or his cheek in a show of glee before and thought nothing of it. The cheeky bastard had kissed him half on the mouth in front of the whole of Scotland Yard two years ago, and while it had been mortifying, it hadn't been because of the action, but the company witnessing it. It was just a kiss.

Sherlock seemed rather wide-eyed and uncertain when he crept closer for the second time and he licked his lips unconsciously. "Look, if you really don't want me to... I just think, you know, it's something you need to experience at least once," John said, some part of him trying to figure out how he came to be in the situation where he was persuading Sherlock Holmes to let him kiss him.

"It… it wouldn't change things between us?" Sherlock asked uncomfortably.

John laughed again, this time quieter. "You think one kiss is going to going to turn me gay? Mate, you're handsome, but let's not get carried away."

Maybe it was the proximity, or maybe Sherlock really was that shy, but he could make out the slightest bit of pink on his cheeks. "Okay," he croaked, closing his eyes. He swept in closer, cupping Sherlock's face, getting slightly nervous as the realization set in that this was the first and likely only kiss his best friend would ever experience, which was nerve-racking and liberating at the same time. Still, John was quite competent at it and he closed his eyes and pretended this was one of his dates.

Sherlock's lips were chapped, and he felt slight stubble under his hand, but other than that it was hardly any different than kissing a woman, with his eyes closed. He slightly parted his mouth, because if he was going to do this, he was going to do this correctly. There was no stirring or arousal, just a feeling of intimacy no different from lounging on the sofa together or huddled close after a particularly bad dream. It wasn't bad. A bit like… shortbread. He couldn't put his finger on why that sprang to mind, but it was fitting.

He pulled back after half a minute, looking up and appraising Sherlock's expression, unsure what he hoped to find. Sherlock still had his eyes closed when John opened his, seemed to still be revelling in the kiss, but John could see his eyes darting back and forth beneath. _Probably collecting data_ he thought.

When he finally opened his eyes, they shared a warm smile and then John clapped him on the shoulder gently, unable to prevent himself from that one defensive manoeuver and slightly hating himself for it. "What did you think?"

"I… don't know. It wasn't unpleasant, and it did feel rather tender and sentimental, but I think that, lacking an interest in sex, I didn't get the full effect," Sherlock said, his voice sounding rather breathy. "Perhaps I should kiss Molly, just to get a more balanced perspective on the matter." John's eyebrows furrowed, before he caught the grin on Sherlock's face and they both descended back into laughter.


	10. Broken Bones

A/N: I decided to go ahead and post my three-shot to this story as it ties in. Apologies for any misrepresentation of medical matters. I'm lucky enough to have never to broken a bone and had to go off research alone. TW for inexplicit mentions of past child abuse.

**BROKEN BONES**

It had been a long night. A fast-paced three day case that had involved so little sleep that John had taken to falling into bouts of microsleep, and as such, he had missed a very crucial deduction of Sherlock's. In the end, it was Sherlock that ended up suffering for it. The murderer was the groundskeeper in the park they were currently sprinting through, and had led them directly into a pitfall. Sherlock, with his exceptionally long legs was four paces in front of him. He'd noticed the shift of the ground in front of him and had stopped suddenly a foot away. John had frantically tried to stop in time but had been distracted when the sprinklers had suddenly cut on and had ploughed into him, sending him careening into the hole. Cat-like as he was, he'd still managed to land unsteadily on his ankle seven feet down and the murderer had gotten away.

He was actually quite shocked that Sherlock hadn't immediately jumped down his throat for his clumsiness. In fact, he had yet to blame him at all. John wondered if he was doing it on purpose. Having no reason to defend himself against an onslaught of insults, guilt and self-deprecation took over and made him feel infinitely worse seeing the grimace on the detective's face as he helped him hobble off on one leg towards the nearest street they could catch a cab on.

"Are you really such a poor doctor that you can't even set my ankle at home?" Sherlock moaned as they sat on inflexible plastic chairs of the A&E waiting for triage to get to them. Looking up from filling out his best friend's medical information, he could tell immediately that it would be at least another fifteen minute wait with the number of bleeding and critical patients. Sherlock may have been a master of deductions, but John could diagnose almost everyone in the waiting area without ever seeing a chart. That was the nature of the A&E though.

"I know you're in pain, but be reasonable. We don't know what's broken."

"Reasonable? Are unbroken bones supposed to jut out at this angle?" It was obvious that the bone was broken, but without x-rays he couldn't tell if it was just his fibula or if his talus or any of his metatarsals had also suffered any damage as well. It was hard to tell through the swelling and without palpating the area, but if he had to guess, it looked like a pilon fracture, and likely would take surgery to correct. These next 6 to 8 weeks were going to be hell on earth; he didn't need anyone to tell him that.

"I can't believe I have to ask you this after so much time, but you're going to need to give me a full medical history." Most of the injuries he'd been able to handle at home, even when it went against his better judgment. This was the first time they'd made it to the A&E in a cab. Mainly it was a formality; all the hospitals in the area had his records on file.

More frequently it was John that was injured. He couldn't count how many times he'd ended up needing stitches, or had to be fished out of the Thames or had his shoulder popped back into place. His ligaments had weakened so that he had to do this much more frequently with his damaged shoulder. It had gotten to the point where he had simply taught Sherlock how to do it for him to spare the trouble of waiting in the A&E.

Sherlock gave a long, agitated sigh, and John tried his very hardest not to roll his eyes. There was pain lurking behind them, even if he wouldn't let on.

"You won't have enough room in that little box there."

"Alright, fine, why don't we stick with what's relevant. Broken bones and allergies for now, I'll decide if anything else is relevant."

"You'll still not have enough room. Aside from amoxicillin, no relevant allergies, but I've broken nearly every bone in my body at one time or another. It's hell getting through airport security."

"You're exaggerating…" Odd, Sherlock rarely exaggerated facts.

"True, I have broken at least 14, though. Or had them broken for me."

"14!?"

"Shall we begin? Or would you like to continue gaping at me so?"

"Fine, bone and age please."

"In chronological order: Right ulna, age 3. Left clavicle age 5. Right radial fracture, age 6. Forth, fifth and sixth ribs on the left side, age 6. Skull fracture, age 8. Nasal bone, age 9. Left scapula, age 10. Left humerus, age 10. Coccyx, age 11. Ninth and tenth ribs on the right side, age 12. Ah, and left third metacarpal, age 29."

Sherlock didn't seem to notice that John had stopped writing after he listed his scapula. His vision had gone blurry and he couldn't quite cease the tremor in his left hand, nor swallow around the dessert dryness in his throat.

"Sorry, was that too vague? Did you need me to give proximity as well?"

John was still trying his best to get his bearings and sort the situation out, and didn't respond. Didn't even meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes," a bored nurse called, and Sherlock finally looked at him and began attempting to get up onto his good foot.

John sat in stunned silence, not even noticing the difficult time the man beside him was having until he heard Sherlock call his name. "I don't normally ask for help, doctor, but do you think you could you lend me a shoulder?"

He snapped to attention and gently guided Sherlock back into his seat and went and found a wheelchair for his injured best friend. The next three hours passed in a blur, and Sherlock was mercifully spared surgery to repair the ankle and given the order of bed rest for two weeks.

Sherlock crashed on the way back to the flat in the cab, either because of the pain meds or the exhaustion, and after many unsuccessful attempts to rouse him, John was forced to slap him awake on the steps of Baker Street after dragging him out of the cab. "Mnn, no! Stop!" His horror filled words, and the way he seemed to shrink into himself as he came to were enough to freeze John's blood and he felt like every last paradigm that he'd ever had concerning Sherlock suddenly turned on its ear. Irrefutable proof of something that, four hours previous, he never would have dreamt up in his wildest nightmares.

After the five minutes it took getting Sherlock up the stairs into their flat and the twenty minutes it took getting him undressed and settled with his ankle iced and elevated, John was so utterly exhausted he was on the verge of falling asleep, tipped forward on Sherlock's bed.

"Could you get the light before you fall unconscious? Also, you'll likely appreciate arranging yourself in a supine position come morning, John."

Without speaking, he got up to get the light and fell back into Sherlock's bed, too tired to make it to his own. "Listen to me, John…" he said, John rallied all of his strength to turn and glance at his best friend. "There are things about my past that I've never told anybody. Things you won't like hearing. I suspect you'll probably see me in a different light once you know… But I would never burden you with them unless it were something you would choose to hear."

John let out a breath. He really ought to awaken himself more and weigh this carefully, but honestly, he didn't need to think this through. Nothing Sherlock could say was capable of scaring him off. "I'm in, 'Lock," he slurred out as though drunk. Too tired to do anything but kick off his trainers. He was out before the second shoe could drop.

Waking up that next morning, filled with horror and sickening dread, he knew without a shadow of a doubt, it would.

He lay there for a while, simply staring at the ceiling, watching Sherlock texting in his peripheral vision. "Do you want breakfast then? You've not had more than biscuits in over two days…"

"I texted in an order for delivery. Procured a guy at Benji's his proper inheritance after proving his stepmother killed his father. I'll call Mrs Hudson and ask her to bring it up for us."

"Don't bother her, I'll get it."

They lay in silence for nearly ten minutes, neither even moving. John got up when the bell sounded and got their breakfast and didn't even bother to get plates. He grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and dug the pain killers from his coat pocket and placed the supplies between them on the bed. They ate out of containers with plastic utensils in Sherlock's bed, both ravenous enough that there were no leftovers.

"Go on, then. You've been trying to figure out an opening. I'll admit I've got all day, but your thinking is becoming quite circular," Sherlock said a few minutes after they had resumed lying in bed, hardly moving.

It had, and for once, John didn't bother feeling astounded or disturbed by Sherlock's ability. "Your father?" he murmured. He knew startlingly little of Sherlock's life prior to his reaching adulthood, but no step parents had ever been mentioned and he doubted a woman was capable of inflicting those kinds of injuries on someone as old as twelve.

"Yes."

"What, um…" he drifted off into silence. Discussing this with someone with typical human emotions would be delicate and difficult, but he'd know exactly what to expect; what barriers to respect, what comfort to give. This was uncharted territory, and for a selfish moment, he wished he could unlearn the information that his best friend was abused as a child, but how the hell did he expect to do that?

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." The words poured out of his lips unchecked and he wished he could recall them almost immediately.

"I forgive you." The detective finally glanced at him with a wan smile.

John didn't smile back. "Do you want to-"

"If you really would like to hear the details, I could recount them for you, but I doubt they would do anything but horrify you, and certainly wouldn't offer any catharsis for me…"

"Sherlock," the tone of compassion was genuine, but he could feel just how unwanted it was.

"I don't know why people think that talking about traumatic moments makes them any less difficult to cope with. Telling Mycroft only resulted in being beaten within an inch of my life. That certainly didn't make me feel any better."

John was struck with an almost unbearably strong desire to touch Sherlock, offer some sort of tactile support. He couldn't possibly know what kind of response it would provoke, but then his best friend turned towards him and it was all written out clear as day in his eyes and he stopped thinking and squeezed the man's arm.

"What happened at age 12?" John asked in hardly a whisper.

Sherlock sat up slowly and leaned backwards against the wall and after a moment, John joined him, lacing a hand through his.

"Car crash. He was an alcoholic you see – terribly clichéd," Sherlock clicked his tongue as though disappointed. "He was paralysed from the neck down. I want to say that I felt like justice had been served, but mother, she blamed me for it. Said my freakishness drove him to the bottle. I didn't know him before I was alive, so it very well could be true. After that, I was schooled full time and stayed with Mycroft over the summer. I only saw them occasionally on holidays. He was placed in a facility and she rarely spoke to me or Mycroft after that."

The coldness that was descending through his body, along with a sensation of pins and needles, was almost welcome. He hadn't noticed placing the other hand in front of his mouth until he found it difficult to breathe in a gasping breath.

He wrapped an arm around the other man's shoulders, but it felt stiff and hollow and he removed it, settling for squeezing a tense shoulder.

"I can't really blame the alcohol too much. He wasn't always drunk when he did it. Mycroft admitted he'd never hit him before, and it only ever occurred when he was away at school. Mother didn't seem to care. I had to wonder if maybe she was right."

"Oh God, stop, please… please stop, Sherlock." John easily and gracelessly threw his arms around him, the tenseness forgotten. Sherlock responded reluctantly, turning to allow him to embrace him but not returning the hug. "She absolutely was _not_ right. You have to believe me."

"Whether it was warranted or not-"

"Shut up! Surely… surely you don't believe that. By God, I don't care if you were the spawn of Satan! Nothing could ever possess someone to hurt a child except a psychological deficiency. Your behaviour, your personality, it wouldn't have… it couldn't have changed that."

"Don't act as though you know for certain. You weren't there…"

"I'd have killed him, had I been. It wasn't your bloody fault. No amount of brattiness or stubbornness could ever have made it your-"

"Then why the hell did he?" John knew it to be a trick of the light, but he would swear on a bible a thunderstorm was taking place behind those beautiful eyes. "Mental deficiency, emotional problems… None of it explains anything, John! Why the hell did he pick me? I was no weaker, no more selfish than my brother was. I wasn't fat or lazy or stupid. I was stubborn, but what child isn't? I may not be adept with human emotions, but the rationalization that takes place in justifying actions is something that I can grasp, at least on a basic level. But this!" Sherlock pulled away, burying his face in his hands. "I can't fucking rationalise this!"

"That's what makes you different than him, don't you see? That's what makes you _better_ than him, or Moriarty or any other criminal that we chase through the streets of London. You can't understand it, and by God, you wouldn't want to, Sherlock! Because you aren't fucking evil. You've got a heart, a soul! I've seen it in you. You're better than he is, mate!"

He'd never heard Sherlock's voice so broken as he spoke. "What made me so unlovable that not even my parents could bring themselves…" He never wanted to hear it again.

"Sod them. Sod both of them, Sherlock. I don't think either of them could love anyone. _I love you!_ Perhaps it doesn't much matter now in the grand scheme of things, but I do. You mean more to me than anyone else alive, and I thank God every day that I met you." He doesn't realise the truth of the words until they're leaving his mouth, knowing he's never meant anything more in his life.

There were tears streaming down both of their faces and Sherlock looked at him with a vulnerability that sent John gasping through sobs. He took his best friend's stricken face in his hands, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his chin. Kissing him like it could somehow stop him from hurting, like a parent kisses a child that had skinned his knee. He could almost feel something physically breaking in his best friend as he finally lost his composure, slumping against John's chest boneless and sobbing like he'd been waiting his entire life for the opportunity to.

He knew there weren't words to alleviate this kind of pain, so he settled for nonsense whispered in a soothing voice, practically crushing the other man in his embrace and stroking his hair. He knew he should be surprised; moved by such a show of emotion from such a typically stoic man, but he couldn't conjure anything other than sadness and compassion, and an odd regret. Disappointment that he lived in a world that had allowed his best friend to go through something like this for years without intervening; had left him to put the pieces back together alone, and had brought him a friend too late in life to be of any real help.

John held him for hours; long after he'd stopped crying. Neither of them spoke for a long while. Sherlock seemed a mixture of shell-shocked and mortified, lying prone against John who wordlessly ran a hand through his curly hair.

He could sense the shame and embarrassment coming off him in waves, but he remained silent and unwilling to move away, his cheek against John's chest. "You're acting like you've just been kegged in the school yard. You don't have anything to be ashamed of, mate…I don't think any less of you. Not in the least." Except for a twitch of his lips, he didn't react to John's words, nor did he focus his eyes, but he could feel him relax just the slightest bit. John stroked his back, rubbed his head and squeezed him tight, but nothing seemed to get any response out of him.

Lunchtime came and went. John dozed off and on, and still Sherlock laid there, his ear resting against John's sternum, as though hypnotised by his heartbeat. John was content to lay there and wait for him to say something, despite the protests his bladder was sending him.

Even now, Sherlock seemed to be able to read his body language, despite not looking directly at his face. "Go on," he said, rolling over onto his back.

John didn't need to be told twice, and nearly stumbled over his shoes on his way to the loo. He came back a minute later and laid down, wondering if the spell had been broken.

"John?" the whispered vulnerability was still there, and if John hadn't known exactly what put it there it might have been endearing to hear.

Sherlock placed his head back down on John's chest, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his shirt.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know if it's at all possible for me to love someone… But if I can, it's you, John."

John had never really though it needed it to be said aloud; had thought Sherlock hadn't either (and couldn't believe it was possible for him to have been more wrong). He knew Sherlock cared. In some ways all the nonsense he had to put up with from him had always seemed like Sherlock's way of testing how far he could push before John left. He recognized it now as a defence mechanism to see how much John cared. Somehow, the idea that Sherlock trusted him… Loved him, after every other person in his life had failed him was awe-inspiring.

In his own way, they had both said it hundreds of times. Not in as many words, but with all the intent. In his own mind, he'd come to accept that the words "You're an idiot" loosely translated to "I love you." Now he wished he'd voiced the thought out loud.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his throat felt like it was caving in.

"John?" Sherlock sat up, his expression worried and guarded.

He cleared his throat, joining him in sitting up and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. "Of course it's possible for you to love. I'm…" John had no idea what to say, embarrassed and flustered that he'd been moved to point of tears. "I always hoped you might…"

"Will you…" Sherlock was trembling slightly, and John was fairly sure that whatever it was, he would happily comply. "Would you say it again?"

This was unprecedented. So out of character for his best friend that John nearly doubted he understood correctly. He found himself smiling. "I love you."

He could make out the conflicting emotions in those eyes, which, after so many years stills managed to dazzle him every day. After such a big reveal, he couldn't blame him for the slight guardedness, but with it he knew there was a bittersweet delight. And hope that John prayed would one day be overtaken by trust. "If you wanted me to, I would say it every day."

He knew the moment they left his lips they had been the exact right words.


	11. Fall Out

A/N: Alright, I'm still not completely satisfied with this one, but I probably never would have been anyway. Seriously, thank you all so much for your continued interest and support in this story. Once again, TW for past mentions of child abuse.

**FALL OUT**

In the week following Sherlock's big reveal, there had been a hailstorm of casework to do, involving a high-profile kidnapping, the arson of a pet store and a murderer that seemed to be obsessed with the American show Happy Days. God only knew what the criminal class of London had been smoking. Par the course, Sherlock hardly slept and barely ate anything except what John could force down his throat. It was more than clear to John that Sherlock was headed for a crash, and soon. Fuelled only by coffee, nicotine and adrenaline, John wondered how on earth Sherlock was still on his feet… or, rather, foot.

On the cab ride back from a case solved John's thoughts were racing, and as usual, Sherlock's were slowing. He hated to do it, but he had to continually shake the detective to keep him from passing out in the cab. Too many times he'd pulled a muscle trying to drag Sherlock up the steps of their flat, and the most recent memory of his attempt at waking the comatose detective was still high in his mind.

There hadn't been a moment to breathe this past week, and he was surprised that the information that Sherlock had been abused as a child hadn't lingered in the back of his mind as he'd expected it to. Between his day job at the surgery and trying to keep track of just what the bloody hell was going on in this nightmare of a case, he had been preoccupied enough that there hadn't been space in the back of his mind. But here, in the cab, with Sherlock slumped against him on the razor's edge of consciousness, it flooded back.

It had almost been as though the entire conversation hadn't taken place at all. John had only noticed one marked difference. Sherlock hadn't said a bad word to him the entire case. He'd been doubly rude to the Yard, and he'd had to hold Anderson back from punching Sherlock in the face (Sherlock had been remarkably understanding about the detour back to the flat so that John could shower directly afterwards). John hadn't noticed until Sherlock had made a comment to the entire room. "Everyone in this room must be suffering brain damage apart from John and myself."

John hadn't been particularly helpful in solving this one at all. He'd made no shrewd insights, had barely been able to keep track of the names of the suspects, and at one point, in his exhaustion, had even taken a cab to the wrong pet shop in the complete wrong part of London.

Nothing he had said had been able to convince Sherlock to stay off his feet, though watching the man manoeuvre on crutches made John wonder if Sherlock was actually better on them than some people were actually walking. "Bed rest? You expect me to stay horizontal while Scotland Yard cocks up the most exciting case this year? Don't insult me, John."

As a result, the limb was swollen to the point where John could see it bulging from the top of his boot. He hadn't returned to the hospital to have it set in a cast despite particularly dogged strong-arming on John's part, so he had had been forced to go out of his way to procure a perfectly fitted boot that would have to do for the time being.

They pulled up to 221B and John nudged Sherlock repeatedly as he paid the driver. Sherlock bounced out of the cab on his crutches and hopped up the steps, not even waiting to see if John would follow.

John found him upstairs, already in bed asleep, fully clothed and above the covers. Sighing, he set about getting Sherlock's jacket out from under him, his ankle elevated and iced, and the covers over top of him. He had no worry that Sherlock would hurt himself further in his sleep. After-case sleep was always the same; Sherlock, still as a statue, asleep for a minimum of 12 hours, more likely a full 18 hours. It was disconcerting, really. The man looked like a corpse, only paler. He had hoped to get a proper meal in him before he conked out but what was he to do? Wake him up?

He got himself fed and showered and fell asleep sometime around 11 O'clock, slumped on the sofa with a newspaper over his face.

At 2, he was awoken by the sound of struggling. He was immediately on his feet, his attention pulled to the sounds coming from Sherlock's room. Was he being attacked? With his leg, he'd never hold up in a fight. John was torn for a moment, whether to grab his revolver from his room upstairs or face the attacker armed only with a newspaper. Without thinking any further, he grabbed a spark lighter sitting on the kitchen table and rushed into Sherlock's bedroom, welding it over his head.

His eyes darted around the room and he relaxed slightly, understanding there was no outside danger occurring here. Sherlock was having a nightmare, and a particularly nasty one from the looks of it. He had squirmed to the edge of the bed and John quickly caught his elbow to prevent him from going over. In response, he gave a heart-breaking sob and laid still, his face stuck in a flinch, and his body quaking with fear and anticipation.

John rushed to the other side of the bed, kneeling beside the detective and thought for a moment on his approach. The man was dreaming about violence. Shaking him awake or screaming in his ear would probably leave him pissing himself with fear, and he had no interest in traumatizing the poor man any further. Instead he gathered him gently in his arms and just held him, unsure whether this approach would help or hurt, but prepared to take the risk.

He felt the tenseness in his best friend down to his very bones as he called his name softy, and John checked to see whether he had injured his ankle any further. Thankfully, he didn't seem to have hurt himself. He hugged him a bit closer and rubbed his arm up and down slowly, feeling the ever-so-slow release of stress in his body.

"J-John?" there was a terror lurking in his voice. Soul-crushing terror that seemed to John the most horrible noise he'd ever heard. "John?"

"Right here, mate. You're fine. You've just had a nightmare," John said. He had attempted to sound soothing, but it came out croaky and shaky and wrong.

Sherlock laid there, allowing his breathing to return to normal, and then in a fluid motion, ignoring his injured leg, he curled into a small ball and buried his head beneath his arms.

"Sherlock?"

"Look at me, John. I'm useless. Utterly useless. I couldn't help myself then and I can't help myself now."

"Don't you think you're being a little hard on yourself?" John asked, gently rubbing his arm. Emotional reasoning only went so far with such a stubborn man. Appealing to his logical side generally wielded better results.

"It took me a week to solve that last case. I should have solved it in two days."

"We hadn't half the evidence by the second day. Even if you had solved it, it wouldn't have held up without the culprit leaving footprints outside of the second family's home."

"Lestrade would have gotten a confession out of him. We could have saved those animals, John, if I had been quicker."

"Yes, well, then I suppose it's my fault as well, isn't it?"

Sherlock removed his head from under his arms and shot him a glowering look. "Don't do that, John. We both know what ploy you were about to use. This has nothing to do with me breaking my ankle. My thoughts have been elsewhere…"

"I should have just let it be…"

"I told you not to do the self-deprecation routine. This isn't about fault, John. These memories were long buried, and now they're dominating my every thought!"

John had had no idea; there had been no indication. "I've always been good at hiding my emotions, John. Even from you. There was no indication because I didn't allow there to be one." Sherlock had barely glanced at him, reading his expression to the letter.

"Have you thought perhaps that that's the problem, Sherlock?"

"What do you mean?"

"You keep all this holed up inside your mind; of course it's going to haunt you. This isn't some bloody puzzle to solve; this is something that happened to you! Something that can't be reconciled with logic, as we've already established. You should be seeing someone to work through this. You need to talk this through; come to terms with it." Sherlock rolled over to look at him, too weak and exhausted to do anything more than lay slumped against his pillows.

"You think I'm going to see a psychiatrist? Why on earth would I pay a stranger to talk about my problems? It didn't work for you, did it?"

"No, but that's because…" because Sherlock had fixed him. John didn't have the slightest clue how to even begin to repay the favour. "If you won't talk to a professional, you'll at least talk to me, Sherlock. This isn't exactly a problem that'll go away on its own."

"I keep replaying it over and over in my mind. I haven't thought of it in so long, hadn't let myself. Now I can't stop myself. At the time, it had been horrible, but it was all I'd ever known. I became accustomed to it. Now that I know better, it feels even worse. The brutality of it all, John! He threw me down a flight of stairs for failing to make my bed. Purposely broke my collarbone because I spoke out of turn.

"Tell me, John, why on earth would I want to dwell on something so horrible when there's absolutely nothing I can do to change it?" The pain in his voice was palpable, and it hurt John to hear it. At the same time, it meant something that Sherlock was even allowing him to. That he trusted John enough to witness his vulnerability. John knew without a shadow of a doubt that no other person alive was worthy in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes of seeing that. Which meant that there was no one else that would be able to help him if John failed.

"It's like a bone that didn't set right, Sherlock. You can ignore it for the rest of your life, but it's always going to bother you. If it's ever going to heal, it needs to be re-broken and set correctly. And I'm sorry to say, it's going to hurt mate. But you'll be a better person for it in the end."

Sherlock didn't say another word the rest of that night, just sighed and got himself settled a bit.

"Would you like to change?" A shrug was the only reply he got, but he climbed to his feet and got him a soft cotton t-shirt and silky bottoms that clashed horribly. He tossed them next to his friend and after receiving a head shake to his offer of help, went out into the kitchen and clicked on the kettle. He made a cup of tea just the way the younger man took it and fished a few digestives out from behind the washing-up liquid. To the best of his knowledge, Sherlock didn't know they were hidden there because John knew if he did he would have eaten them in lieu of an actual meal.

John wasn't sure if he imagined a look of relief on his best friend's face when he reappeared with the tea and biscuits. He grabbed the defrosted ice pack and exchanged it for a second, propping up the swollen ankle once again and tutting his disapproval of its state. He would have to wait for the swelling to go down to see if he had exacerbated his injury any further, but decided to leave it alone for now. It could probably do with another x-ray and a permanent cast, but for tonight at least, he let it alone.

He met Sherlock's eyes and watched his face go purposely blank. He could take a stab at what that meant. "At least eat the damn biscuits and have a few sips of tea. I don't think even you can remember your last proper meal."

After doing as he was told, John pulled the sheets and blankets up over him and watched him adjust onto his side whilst keeping his foot elevated, but Sherlock neither closed his eyes nor made eye contact. Finally, he stopped with the pretence, flipped the light off and got in beside him. He didn't know if Sherlock wanted him there or would ask, but he doubted the man would protest to his presence.

It finally struck John, really hit him as he was getting in besides him that Sherlock had never had anyone in the course of his entire life that he could depend on and trust. No one that cared about him, or had his best interests in mind. Perhaps his brother had attempted to look after him in a sense, but their relationship was strained at the best of times. He hadn't grown up with the immense luxury of simply having someone that was there for him to love him unconditionally, or help him with his problems and while John couldn't imagine such a thing if he tried, he wanted nothing more than to give that back to his best friend. Sherlock needed someone now, and John not only knew he had to help, but wanted to as well. But would Sherlock ever accept it?

He got his answer almost as soon as he'd gotten himself situated beside his friend. Almost unconsciously, Sherlock scooted closer to him and he felt a feather light touch on his arm. John smiled to himself at the unspoken request between them and swung onto his side, pressing his chest against the bony shoulder blades of his best friend and pulling him in close. He reached up, running his fingers a few times through his friend's inky black hair and waiting for the tension to leak out of his body. He spoke reassuring words against his neck, reminding him that he was loved and that it was all going to be fine, remembering that Sherlock had never had anyone to do this for him before. It took some time but eventually, at the mention that John wasn't going anywhere and never would, he could feel his friend melt back against him. _I cannot fail him_, John thought to himself, lying awake and praying for answers.


	12. Coping

A/N: So sorry this took so long. I couldn't seem to get the ending right (I'm still not satisfied with it. I might end up rewriting it, so watch this space. I've also had an influx of company lately, making it difficult to find times to slink away and write. So, without further ado, the third and final part (unless inspiration strikes, I suppose...).

**COPING**

The next day was a slow one. Lestrade tried to call them in for their statement and to fill out paperwork but John expressly forbid it, telling the DI to stop by the following morning to get it from them over breakfast.

He didn't allow Sherlock out of the flat. Without a case to occupy their time, John knew it was a only a matter of time before the storm clouds eventually pushed him close to the brink and John knew exactly what Sherlock was capable of doing under those types of circumstances.

Aside from Sherlock's broken ankle, their post-case routine commenced as usual. John was up at his usual time and Sherlock slept in. He knew it was only a matter of time before the whinging started about being bored and he sat in relative peace until 11:00 when the detective finally awoke. Mrs. Hudson was feeling generous and made them both breakfast as she was wont to do when either of them were particularly sick or injured.

"The state of your leg, Sherlock! How could you let it get like that?" she cried, and then turned to John as though it were his fault. His bowed his head in shame, knowing that, in some respects, it was.

"Tomorrow I'm going to take him to the surgery with me and get it taken care of." His supervisor Brent was a good bloke and probably wouldn't make any noise about it. Sherlock didn't give any indication that he'd heard John until he levelled him with a stare. He gave a brief nod and stabbed at his eggs. John thought how odd it was; how naturally he had come to pay attention to Sherlock's eating habits, his sleeping habits, even his bathing habits. He usually didn't have to raise any hell about the last one, but could tell with two back to back week long cases and a broken ankle, showering had fallen by the wayside.

Around three O'clock he decided to spare them both an argument and drew a bath, wordlessly steering Sherlock inside the bathroom and throwing a towel at him. For now he didn't have to worry about wrapping up a cast and he was glad when he heard water shifting a minute later, not up to a row just then.

He made them lunch practically around the time they should have been eating dinner, resigning himself to doing the cooking and shopping diligently over the next month or two. When Sherlock got hungry enough he would do it himself, but he didn't exactly have the option and John couldn't help but feel like the man could use a bit of mothering, especially knowing he barely had one growing up as it was.

He watched him over the meal; not bothering to be furtive about it as there was no point when dealing with Sherlock. He remembered the conversation the previous night. "These memories were long buried, and now they're dominating my every thought!" If a case couldn't take his mind off of everything, the two of them sitting there in silence would turn up the volume on it even more, and he knew by the glazed look and sudden flinch that Sherlock was thinking about it now.

He laid a hand over Sherlock's gently but it was as though he had stabbed him with a fork for the reaction that he got. Sherlock jerked, his eyes swinging around wildly and John tried to clear his face of the pity and shock he knew would put Sherlock off even more. He gave the younger man's hand a squeeze and did his best not to be overwhelming with his concern. Still, he couldn't stop the thought that things were hopelessly and irreparably changed.

After they had eaten, Sherlock picked up his violin, John read the newspaper and they tried to pretend everything was as it had been. But after trying to focus for a half an hour, he realised it would be fairly obvious to the world's most observant man that he wasn't reading the words on the page. Lowering one edge to peer at the man, he picked up that same remarkably unfocused look in his eyes from before. Even when he 'went to his mind palace' his eyes continued to dart around as though the room had morphed into somewhere else entirely. This, well, this was a memory, and judging by his pallor and the careless way he was absently playing the violin pizzicato, he wasn't particularly engaged in his surroundings.

A sudden dissonance as one of the strings snapped back from his fingers and John realised it was because the younger man's hands had begun shaking, right along with the rest of him. John had to quickly catch the Stradivarius as the instrument dropped off Sherlock's lap and John noticed the faint beginnings of a splotch of colour forming, but his attention was torn away by the look in Sherlock's still blurred eyes. He quickly set the violin in its case, watching as Sherlock's face crumpled, and he breathed raggedly in short gasping bursts and John was on his feet at once, one leg kneeling on the seat beside Sherlock and the other straddling his legs. He squeezed the younger man's shoulders, feeling his startle at the sudden contact but held him at eye level, one hand combing through the man's hair, hoping the sensation might distract him a bit from whatever was knocking around inside his head.

He knew Sherlock had an eidetic memory and had to wonder just how clearly he was recalling the abuse, how close to the surface those memories now lurked and what the hell he was going to do about it.

"Talk it out, mate. What are you seeing?" he asked in a low, calm voice. He half expected Sherlock to ignore him completely. As his hand dipped further down the other man's neck he could feel the gooseflesh rising along the base. His stomach plummeted, and he prayed that whatever it was that Sherlock was remembering wasn't something he'd repressed; wasn't as traumatic as his physiological response was indicating. From what he'd been told already, Sherlock had enough to work through without any more ordeals to cope with. Sherlock pulled back, blinking in confusion and seeing that they were in their messy flat, seemed to come to.

And then Sherlock was meeting his gaze, wheezing out breath after breath, and John wondered where his stomach had gone, because it seemed to have disappeared entirely at the horror he could see in his best friend's eyes. He'd seen that look… More times than anyone should ever have to see it – had worn it himself – but never on someone who he cared about so immensely. More than he cared about himself, if he was pressed to admit. And it fucking hurt.

His mouth was hanging open and he looked so lost suddenly, like a child who'd lost track of their mum in the grocery. "You're all right, 'Lock… you're with me, in our flat. Take it easy… deep breaths."

"I could feel it. I was there, John. I was there and I was nine years old and he was… He could have killed me. I… I could actually feel it. He had a belt around my neck and he kept choking me until I was seeing spots and releasing it. Over and…" he met John's eyes again, and John grimaced, reading the question in his eyes. "Why?"

He wanted to say he had no clue, that it was senseless, that it wasn't his fault. A million other empty platitudes that wouldn't make a hell of a lot of difference for either of them. Instead, he realised, he had to give the man something that his brain could process.

"He may have been abused himself and never learned that it was wrong. Thought it was how a child should be properly raised… I think it's most likely an issue of control, though." Sherlock looked up at him as if he had the answers to the mysteries of the universe. So much like a child that he truly wanted to bundle him up in a blanket, hold him close and shush all his fear and pain away. "That's… one of the more common reasons. To feel control over something, to feel powerful. You were a child… most-likely a bit of a smartarse I reckon, and perhaps small for your age. I can't really say for sure, and who honestly could? All you can really know for sure is that it wasn't your fault and that he'll never hurt you again."

They fell into silence, and John moved back to his chair, not wanting to hover or loom over the younger man. He could see how exhausted Sherlock was and had to wonder how long it took him to fall back to sleep after he'd passed out. He hoped he hadn't left him alone in a state like the one he was in now.

It took a while of John staring at his knuckles and Sherlock coming to terms with his surroundings, but eventually, against all John's expectations, Sherlock began to speak.

"I had an uncle that was kind to me. And cousins… My mother's brother wasn't well off and my father didn't really approve of him, but he would come at Christmas time and bring presents for me. Things that weren't academic or proper. He must have noticed what an odd child I was, but he was either too kind or too sympathetic to let it affect the way he treated me. I'm certain he had no idea about the abuse, though I can recall at least two Christmases where I had visible, noticeable injuries. He didn't hurt me around the holidays or during the three weeks in summer when Mycroft was home from school. He was clever, my father. Perhaps not as clever as I or Myc are now, but smart enough to keep it from becoming known. Myc only found out when I was 11 and I told him… He confronted my father about it but was sent back to school early and nothing was done about it.

"I was home schooled up until that time by private tutors. I don't know how father kept them from revealing it… or if they simply didn't care. We had a private family doctor that looked the other way. Father had enough money to keep the whole thing concealed. I… I sometimes wonder how long it would have continued if he hadn't been in that car accident. He nearly killed me for telling Mycroft. Eventually he would have had to let me go to boarding school. The more he hurt me, the more I pushed back and the angrier it made him. You were right, I was small for my age and I was a right smartarse. I'm surprised he didn't kill me."

He looked so fragile, sitting alone across from him, and John's heart went out to him as he opened up. He could see the exhaustion setting in, his eyes unfocused and his lids seemed to get heavier. It wasn't really late enough to sleep, but he'd been living on Baker Street long enough to know that when there was downtime and you were tired you simply didn't worry about the time. "You should lay down, mate. You've not had a full night's rest in almost a fortnight."

It was truly a sign of overwhelming exhaustion that he didn't argue. "Would you stay with me until I fell asleep?" John knew somewhere along the way, the dynamic in their relationship had shifted, softened somehow, but it was unnerving to hear the vulnerability in that deep voice, laid bare and open for nobody but John to witness. This new level of intimacy was still new and while he embraced it and cherished it, he was still coming to terms with it.

"How about we bunk in my room for a little while? We've both been having nightmares pretty regularly, and it's not as though it's anything new… My mattress is better than yours anyway."

Sherlock didn't respond, simply hobbled to his feet, taking the crutch which John was quick to hand him and go into his bedroom, re-emerging in a different set of pyjamas and damp curls freshly combed, making for John's room without even acknowledging him.

To be honest, he was still a bit ambivalent about their sleep situation, finding it an occasional nuisance, but mainly uneasy with how comfortable he found it. He'd slept in other peoples beds all his life, and didn't find the act of sharing a sleeping space at all bothersome, but Sherlock had never actually asked him before. He'd always relied on the pretence of 'sleep-walking' or simply shown up, neither of them making eye contact. It was almost… welcome to acknowledge it. And perhaps a bit frighteningly indicative of what they were in for.

John shut his book, considered bringing it along; perhaps as an excuse to keep the light on, but ultimately deciding that perhaps the lack of light would be better. Their unspoken talks could be a true blessing when the lines of communication were limited, but they tended to hide behind it sometimes; used it as an excuse to leave things unsaid; apologies, bargains, permissions, forgiveness… It worked immensely in their favour, but it was becoming clear to him that there were some things that warranted being spoken aloud.

John followed after him, ascending the stairs and finding the detective sitting up in his bed and picking absently at John's duvet and worrying his thumb. He undressed, happy for the opportunity to sleep in something other than jeans for the first time in ages. He jerked his head, indicating for Sherlock to move over and watched him oblige, getting in on the side he always slept on and settling back, switching off the light as he listened to the sounds of shuffling.

Then there was silence. Silence wasn't a fair assessment. The sounds of insects, passing cabs and street noise were audible, but all he could focus on was the sound of his flatmate's breathing. Unconsciously, he turned onto his side facing his friend. "I want you to do something for me," he whispered lowly.

He felt Sherlock turn towards him, waiting.

"I need you to trust me. Will you do that?"

"I always trust you," he heard Sherlock scoff, as though it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"Pretend that I'm him. Like you're talking to him. I won't say anything back, just… say the things you've always wanted to say," John said quietly, uncertain of what he was suggesting but unwilling to let that stop him.

"That's ridicu-"

"Stop." He let the man lay in silence for a bit, wishing for thousandth time he could read the man's mind. "It's me, here, Sherlock. There's nothing you can do or say that'll chase me off, got that?" he murmured, finding his hand beneath the sheets and giving it a tight squeeze.

Beside him, he could hear a shaky breath, long and drawn out and then he waited. This wasn't for him. It wasn't going to happen on his time frame. He was prepared to wait for as long as it took.

"W-" the whispered syllable somehow seemed like a shout in the silence of John's bedroom and he shifted to attention. Without uttering another word, Sherlock shifted onto his side, pulling John's arm until it was wrapped around him, and John followed, mimicking their position from the previous night.

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath and shifted until John's arm was cradling his head. It took him a few minutes, and when he began to speak, it was with a hoarse voice. "When I was very young, I used to dream about the day that you'd pick me up and apologize… hold me and cry and say how you didn't mean to do any of it. That it had been a mistake... I remember I planned it all in my head, how I'd pretend to think about it long and hard just to make you squirm, but that I'd say, if you promised you'd never do it again, that I'd forgive you. I dreamt about that until I left for Eton, and then I wouldn't let myself think about it at all."

The words held deadness. A disconnect that John found terrifying and nauseating all at once. "Every time my mind strayed to think about any of it, I'd pinch my arm and tell myself thinking about it would only make it worse. So I didn't. I shut down all thought of you ever being an actual human until you existed in my memory as this… black sludge that caused pain, and every person that called me names or tried to hurt me eventually started to look like you, sound just like you. I resented it, but I forced myself to forget everything you ever did to me until only your words remained. I couldn't let myself forget what you said. I defined myself by it. I was useless, worthless, pathetic…" the monotone broke, and the heart-breaking word were suddenly coated in the agony that John knew was behind them. "unlovable. And I knew why you hated me; because I was a despicable person."

John felt sick with the urge he knew he had to supress. Because he couldn't say a word, so instead he hugged the man closer against him until his words were reverberating against John's chest and Sherlock's soft hair was curling around his fingers. "I thought that for so long that I stopped bothering to make an effort to hold that back. I let people see it for what it was. I let your words become who I was. And I hated you all the more for it."

"All the people I chased away, all the loneliness and unhappiness I felt; I stopped caring that I was destroying my life because, in my mind, it wasn't me who was doing it. It was you. I couldn't separate me from you. I still can't, sometimes. But… The difference is… I want to be better now. I have a reason to be. I have John, and even though… he's too good for me, he still stays even when I want him to leave. Even when he should leave." John could feel the shakiness, and pressed his forehead against his friend's neck, giving a subtle nod for him to continue. "He thinks I'm worth something even though I'm worthless. He thinks I'm good even though I'm bad. He's smart enough to know better, but he still thinks that I'm a good person. And… he thinks there's something about me that's worth loving."

There was silence that John filled by sitting up on his elbow, silently pressing a kiss to the man's temple. John pulled back as Sherlock rolled onto his back, then settled against Sherlock's shoulder, resting his hand over his heart and feeling the words as they escaped his chest.

"I think…" Sherlock took a deep shuttering breath as he rested his mouth against John's head. "I don't think I believe you anymore. I think I believe John." John had to twist his head to bury his mouth into the warmth of his shirt to stop himself from making a sound. He was close enough to hear Sherlock swallow. "I don't want to hate you anymore, father. I still want you to pull me into your arms and beg you to forgive me. I just want to let go of all of this. But I don't know how to forgive someone who doesn't feel remorse."

They laid in silence after that for a long time, Sherlock occasionally snuffling, but saying nothing, John waiting to be sure there was nothing else that Sherlock felt he wanted to say. He let it all wash over him, incredibly touched by the words and feeling immensely proud of his best friend. Both for having the courage to say the words and the forbearance to want to let the past remain there and to move on with his life. Eventually, he blinked away his tears, laying against the pillows and reversing their positions and burying his nose in the fluffy sweet smelling curls Sherlock hadn't bothered to style this morning.

"This isn't about him, Sherlock," he murmured, rubbing a line up and down his friend's spine. "He's not here now. He can never hurt you again. You don't have to live with him. It's yourself you have to live with. You have to find a way to take all of that hatred and pain and horror and let it go. Because you aren't him and you never will be; you're infinitely better than he is. I know how much you hate him for what he did to you. But the best thing you can do to get back at him is to let him go. Don't let him live up here," John lifted his hand to Sherlock's temple. "Don't let him win."

He felt the small nod against his mouth and heard the quiet sniff. He twisted his head around so that he could look at him in the dim, dirty streetlight filtering in from the blinds. Sherlock looked at him with impossibly big eyes and John smiled, content to play the role of big brother that Mycroft had never filled. "Let yourself grieve Sherlock, but remember all of what you still have. You have clients queuing up to have you solve their cases. You've got people on this planet who wouldn't be around if it weren't for you. You've got that big beautiful brain of yours. And… you've got me, 'Lock. You've got me and you always will."

John felt his friends arms snake around his chest, and for a time, they both stayed this way, John trying to summon words capable of healing past pains and Sherlock letting the type of safety, comfort and warmth he'd been deprived of for so long help chase away his demons.

"John, is this going to go away?" Sherlock asked, shifting so that they could look at each other straight on without straining their necks. "Will I be able to let it go?"

John just nodded his head. "You will," he promised. "Give it time and eventually you'll find a way to make your peace with it. Just keep talking to me, alright?" John knew eventually, everything would be fine, even if it took some time to get there. He knew that this was helping.

He shifted when he received no reply, realizing that Sherlock had fallen asleep with his head resting on John's chest and his arm curled over him and John rolled his eyes, smiling and knowing as long as they had each other, there was little they couldn't work through. It wouldn't happen in the space of a moment, but it was nothing time, tea and talking couldn't sort out.


	13. Ambiguity

A/N: And now back to your regularly scheduled programing. Thank you everyone who has reviewed this fic. Especially the ones that have been loyal reviewers from the start. You're all fantastic!

**AMBIGUITY**

John threw open the door to their flat fuming, his eye swelling and his nose leaking blood that he'd stained the sleeve of his third favourite jumper trying to staunch the flow of.

"John, come here and look at these myocardial cells of Jacob Wallace and tell me if you think he's got ischemia," Sherlock said before he'd even made it into the kitchen.

"Not now, 'Lock," he said, his voice choked and nasally. He pulled out a bag of peas from the freezer that had been in there since their first year of co-habitation, covering the left side of his face with it.

"Who did this to you?" The tone Sherlock Sherlock's voice held reminded him quite a bit of the one that Harry had used when he'd come home from his first rugby practice looking like he'd been mugged.

"Lestrade. And Susan." John muttered angrily, lifting away the pack to spit blood into the sink.

"A detective inspector from Scotland Yard, and your girlfriend beat you up?" Sherlock queried, for once not catching on right away.

"Yes, and it's all your fault you stupid, sodding git!" he was sore and tired, and had honestly believed that he would be having sex tonight rather than nursing injuries he'd received for no good reason. And not by a jewel thief or a serial killer, but by someone he would almost consider a friend, and his (now ex) girlfriend.

"Me? I'm… Ah, I see. You really can't blame that entirely on- "

"I can, and I do! First you kiss me in front of a bunch of people who already think we're shagging, then you fail to set the record straight. Lestrade found me snogging Susan in the park and hauled off and punched me. _Then_ Susan nearly broke my nose thinking she was the other woman. All around, very much _not good,_ Sherlock."

"John, I can see how you would believe this to my fault, but you must agree it's…"

"It's entirely your fault. Once my nose stops bleeding, you're marching down to Scotland Yard with me and explaining this to Lestrade, do you understand me?" John told him, pinching his nose and pulling off the blood-coated jumper to begin soaking it to get the stain out.

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock said after a near minute of scrubbing. "You must know I never intended for you be physical hurt by what I did." He felt Sherlock wrap his arms around his waist and press against his back.

John didn't point out that this type of thing was exactly what had everyone believing they were together in the first place. It was never something either of them did outside of the privacy of their own flat. Mrs Hudson was the only one that had been privy to it and he was fairly certain the only person she was likely to tell was Mrs Turner.

"I know you didn't," he said quietly as Sherlock put forehead down on John's shoulder. He knew it hadn't been intentional, but his face still smarted and he could add one more name to the now double-digit list of women John had lost due to the mistaken impression that he was shagging his flatmate.

"Come on, we'll get this cleared up. But I'm not explaining to Susan. I won't stand for you being in a relationship with someone who would hurt you," Sherlock said honestly and John had to smile at his protectiveness.

"What in the hell did you think you were doing, Lestrade?" Sherlock exclaimed, pacing around his office. John merely glared out of one eye, the defrosted bag of peas sagging against the other. "You can't just irrationally hit people in the park. John could have you reported, maybe even fired!"

"Excuse me, but you're angry at me? He's the one I caught cheating with some trollop in the middle of Regents. Git didn't even try and disguise it. He got what he deserved," Lestrade said, and he didn't need to be Sherlock to figure out that Lestrade had most likely found out that his wife had cheated on him again. Transference… He should ask him out for drinks sometime after they'd made amends. He clearly needed someone to talk to.

"We're not sleeping together," John said, this time leaving the defensive stuttering tone out of his voice.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and John rolled his eyes, correcting himself. "We're not _having sex_." He rather hoped that Lestrade wouldn't read too much into his correction. "We're just… very close friends and that's it. That kiss a few months ago was just a joke. He was getting back at me for teasing him."

"I didn't expect it was going to result in any physical injuries," Sherlock said, anger still tinting his voice.

"I'm… I'm sorry John. I just…" Lestrade sputtered, turning red. One of John's most cursed attributes was his inability to hold a grudge. It was among the many reasons why he had been able to stay best friends with a lunatic for two plus years now.

"You thought a friend of yours was being betrayed and you reacted without thinking about it. I'm a bit angrier about Susan breaking up with me than the black eye, but I think I'll live. Spread it round, would you? I'm straight; he's got no interest in sex…" He glanced at Sherlock slightly nervous, hoping it was alright to say that to Lestrade or even to acknowledge it at all. Once glance at Sherlock told him that it was fine, but only because it was Lestrade.

"Then what exactly is going on between you two?" Lestrade asked, noticing the way they seemed able to silently communicate merely through facial expressions. John looked towards Sherlock who raised his eyebrows and gave a little shrug.

"Dunno," he said honestly. If there were a word for what it was, he wasn't sure he'd care to use it. Labels got him into enough trouble. "Whatever it is, it works for us."

Lestrade just quirked an eyebrow and smiled a little knowing smile, nodding his dismissal. He turned and left, for once leaving Sherlock to follow in his wake.

On the tube ride home, he felt Sherlock surreptitiously take his hand and give it brief squeeze. He met his gaze and smiled, one eye half shut with swelling. Perhaps no one else would get it, but it hardly mattered. They did.


	14. Family

A/N: One of my personal favorites. Hope you enjoy! Thanks again to all who reviewed. You're making a very stressful time in my life so much better!

**FAMILY**

"My cousin Andrea is getting married," John announced with a sigh one hot and lazy Tuesday morning. There were no cases to be had and John wasn't needed at the surgery so they were enjoying a quiet game of scrabble which Sherlock was beating the pants off him at.

"Is Andrea the hypochondriac or the one that made you take her to her own formal because she couldn't get a date?"

"One and the same, actually. I only have one female cousin that I know of, the others live in Ireland and I've never met them," John remarked, turning the word light into flashlight and smirking satisfied at getting the triple word score. He'd still lose, but probably not as spectacularly. Sherlock made a bored noise of affirmation.

"She put you down on the invitation. Apparently my family wants to meet you," he said dispassionately. He didn't care one way or the other. He didn't particularly want to go all the way to Dorset, but knowing that her family had a bit of money and remembering what a brat she had always been he was fairly sure it would be quite the affair. He hadn't had the chance to make his yearly trip to see his Dad yet, and he missed him rather terribly. He also knew that Harry was currently off the wagon and expected that she would probably make a scene.

He looked up at Sherlock's lack of response and saw the man was looking a bit stunned. "Why do they want to meet me?"

"Dunno, quite a few of them read my blog, though. I suppose they wanted to meet you for themselves."

"After reading your blog? You don't paint the most appealing picture of me." That wasn't as true of late, but whether it was because Sherlock was getting better or John had become much more tolerant and fond of the younger man remained to be seen.

"Regardless… You don't have to go. It's in Dorset at some fancy hotel. You'll likely be bored."

"No, I… I think I'd like to meet your family. It's about time. You've met all the family that's currently speaking to me. Apologies for that, by the way. You don't think I'd embarrass you completely?"

John rolled his eyes. "I'm sure between you and my family, it will be a weekend filled with humiliation, but that's really the only thing you can truly count on family for. My Da has been asking to meet you for a while anyway. I'm sure you'll get on with him."

"Just remind me the week before so I don't take any cases that are too involved." Sherlock said, turning a bunch of mismatched letters into the word onomatopoeia.

One long and sweltering month later and John had started looking forward to the trip. The hotel was situated right by the seaside and he packed his swim trunks and his rugby ball just in case he could talk Sherlock into joining him for a romp on the beach. Honestly, the man needed to get more sun.

The hotel was costing a small fortune and he was grateful that Sherlock offered to pay half for the room. Stepping inside, he understood why. It was really very lavish and a bit more purple than he thought was tasteful but wonderful all the same. He'd booked the cheapest room they had, glad for once that they were comfortable sharing a bed, though rather hoping his family didn't find out. They were critical enough of Harry; not even half of their close family had shown up to her wedding to Clara. He would be getting enough shifty looks after introducing his arrogant, too-smart-for-his-own-good best mate without them wondering if their sharing a bed was more than platonic.

On the other hand, he'd told himself the train ride up that he wasn't going to let himself get wound up over what they thought of him. He hadn't heard from half of them in over a decade and only exchanged holiday cards with the bulk of the rest. He was rather partial to his Aunt Maggie and Uncle Jeremy who had never had children and had acted as godparents to him and Harry. His cousin Robert was good for a laugh over a few pints, and he didn't expect he'd see his Great Aunt Sarah at too many more family functions, but he couldn't say he was overly concerned with what they would think of him and Sherlock.

They met up with three separate family members on the way to their room, and he felt a bit concerned for the amount of small talk that Sherlock had to endure before they could unpack. The rehearsal dinner wasn't until 8 O'clock and though there was time to kill, he had plans for it.

"Come on, then. We've got a few hours of daylight left. Let's go soak it up." He didn't get the expected argument and had to laugh at the bewildered look as Sherlock carded his hands through the clothes he'd brought before throwing a pair of shorts he'd packed, knowing they were a bit too tight but would likely fit his flatmate. He nearly burst a rib trying to keep a straight face seeing them on his long gawky legs and angular knees.

The doctor in him insisted on practically hosing Sherlock down with enough lotion to block out the sun and could only desperately hope that the man would freckle rather than tan. John's family would be enough to contend with without fending off unwanted advances by drunken bridesmaids.

He learned quite quickly that Sherlock had quite an arm on him and would have made a bloody good lock had he any interest in sports. As it was, he tired of passing quickly and John tired of having the ball sail over his head. They collapsed on the sand just in time for the sun to set and John realised quite suddenly that this was the first vacation he'd had in over seven years that didn't involve a crime in some way. "John?"

"Let me guess… you're bored," John said drolly.

"No, I was going to say that this is nice," Sherlock said, sounding a bit awkward. "Thank you for having me along." John didn't really know what to make of it, that being the third nice thing that he'd heard from the detective yet.

When they'd showered and changed and Sherlock had finished coifing his hair ("it's not product, John, it's just a bit of gel!") they went down and had a nice dinner. They sat next to his dad and he listened to Sherlock and his father quipping about the state of today's education and John barely cringed at some of the comments the man made under his breath at some of the more maudlin comments that the bridesmaids a few seats down were making, and the tantrum that Andrea had on her mobile with the caterer in clear earshot of the entire party.

He introduced Sherlock to his family and eventually, after Sherlock proved to be on his best behaviour, dropped his guard. The detective even waited until they were chatting over coffee before recounting some of their more gruesome adventures, and John felt… wonderful, really. He could actually sit and enjoy his food for once without wondering if they were going to get a text and have to leave at a moment's notice. He didn't have to play translator of Sherlock to English or appeaser of some of his more off-putting comments. It all felt too good to be true and he couldn't keep the smile off of his face.

After dinner he, Sherlock and his dad sat out on the veranda with a scotch and seemed to do nothing but laugh. They had a late night up and were practically falling asleep on each other through the ceremony which seemed to last hours without anything interesting happening. The groom, Steven, seemed to John the most boring human being on the planet from the way he looked, acted and spoke. He wondered how two people so utterly different could have ended up together, then turned to his left and his questions ceased. Some things just made sense.

Much to Andrea's ire, the caterers were two hours late, which left many of the guests frequenting the bar more often than they might otherwise have. John was on his third glass of wine before dinner was served and quickly resigned himself to the fact that he would be getting drunk tonight.

Somehow, Sherlock was acting even more charming than he had the night prior, kissing the hands of his aunts when introduced and acting a bit too posh for John's comfort zone. He'd seen every character in Sherlock's arsenal that he used to sway people a certain way and he couldn't help but wonder what he was playing at.

"John, who is this man? Certainly he can't be the one you write about in your blog. I thought you were bringing Sherlock Holmes…" His cousin Andrea commented, her cheeks pink from champagne. He'd heard at least seven variations of this comment from the rest of his relatives, and even people who he'd never met but seemed to know them from the press or kept up with his blog.

Somehow, he couldn't help but feel like they were all turning against him, as though he'd done something morally offensive by writing about Sherlock in such a derogatory manner, and he could feel the elation he'd felt the night before slowly dripping away with every disparaging look shot in his direction, or delighted giggle at one of Sherlock's more charming statements.

Halfway through dinner, and his fifth drink of the evening, he'd truly had enough. "Why are you acting like this, Sherlock? This isn't you! What are you playing at, acting all James Bond and making me look like I'm a verbally abusive berk or something?"

Sherlock shot his best doe-eyes at John, but he wasn't having it. "You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock. Don't play innocent." It had come out meaner than he'd intended for it to. Perhaps this had been the man's intention all along.

"John… I honestly just wanted to make a good impression on your family. I thought that's what you would want me to do." John felt his face heat up and he felt his bad mood turn inward.

"Just be yourself, Sherlock. You walking around all suave and sweet; you don't have to do that, Sherlock. Not for me," he said, some of the affection he'd felt for Sherlock the night before returning. "Come on, this is a wedding. Let's get drunk and embarrass ourselves. Looks like Harry's halfway there already." She was dancing in a ridiculous manner with her girlfriend Mary, who looked a bit terrified at the stares in their direction.

He yanked Sherlock's arm up and pulled him out onto the dance floor just as the music changed into something slow and he grinned an awkward grin but was rather chuffed when Sherlock looked at him in a childlike manner and John pulled him close and swayed in lazy circles with him. He couldn't tell if he had the attention of the rest of the dance floor, for he had his face buried in Sherlock's shoulder and, honestly, wouldn't have cared if he had.

After the rhythm sped up, John quickly discovered that, contrary to every notion he'd had of the man, from his fluid movements to his cat-like grace, Sherlock Holmes was a piss-poor dancer, and if they weren't being stared at before, they certainly were now. If anything, this made John even more cheerful and by 8:30, they were both tipsy enough that they were practically tripping over each other.

Around 9, exhausted and giddy from dancing, John stole a bottle of wine from the bar and they went down to the beach, stripped down to their shirtsleeves and chatted for a while about how long and tedious the ceremony had been, and Sherlock filled John in on some of the more eyebrow-raising activities his relatives were engaging in.

"If I'm ever to get married, it will be a quick trip to the registry and then a nice dinner where ever she wants. You'll be my best man, right 'Lock?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock said with complete seriousness in his voice. "You can't get married. You have to stay with me at Baker Street until we're ready to retire to the country, and then we'll die old and senile, sitting on the porch together." John smiled at him indulgently.

"That's distinct possibility…" he said honestly, taking a swig from the bottle and handing it over. They hadn't bothered with glasses. "Very distinct possibility. What're the chances I find a woman that loves both of us, anyway?" he asked.

"I suppose, if that's your criteria, I'll consider allowing you to marry," Sherlock told him. They were both rather drunk, and their coherency was becoming less and less clear, or at least it would have been if there had been anyone around to witness them. They made complete sense to each other, however.

"Oh and I suppose you think you'd actually be able to stop me, huh?" John asked, dragging the bottle away from Sherlock and tousling his hair simultaneously.

"There's not a doubt in my mind. You wouldn't dare marry anybody I didn't approve of," Sherlock told him, in a jestingly challenging voice. John didn't have to agree because they both knew it was true.

A lot of the evening after that became a blur, with snippets of them getting into a bit of a playful brawl over John's insistence that he was stronger than Sherlock (he wasn't) and that he could beat him in a wrestling match (he couldn't). Years of living with John had left him a stone heavier from proper nutrition and long gone were the days when John could take him in a fight. He has a distinct memory of them returning to the wedding and getting cut off at the bar. They had retreated back to their room, dragging half of the beach with them and at Sherlock's suggestion, stripped down to their pants before climbing into bed.

John awoke to an almighty throbbing in his head that seemed to resonate with the sound of a knocking at the door. He groaned, burying his face further against Sherlock's neck and tried to block out the pain, the noise and the light without success.

Jumping to his feet, he stomped over to the door and ripped it open, glaring at the person on the other side through one eye. "Check out is in half an hour, cousin," Robert told him all too cheerfully. "Might want to save time and shower together." John winced at the lewd wink he shot in his direction and shut the door without another word. Yes, his plan for his family not to get the wrong idea about him and Sherlock had gone off without a hitch… At least he could offer some solidarity to Harry.

"Not good?" Sherlock's quiet but slurred voice greeted him as he pressed his forehead against the door wearily, trying to find the strength to stand on his own feet.

"Not your fault. We probably looked like we'd been shagging on the beach when we came in covered in sand. I think we just confirmed what they'd already believed in the first place," he muttered opening the balcony to begin shaking out their sand-encrusted clothes. "Catching us in pants and sharing a bed was just icing. Hell, if I didn't know myself, I would probably think so too."

"Yes, it was rather incriminating. We were leaning against each other rather heavily. Your Great Aunt Sarah looked scandalised. We'll have been the talk of the wedding, I suppose," Sherlock said, digging through his suitcase and collecting clothes to take a shower. "I'll try and be quick. Call and see if you can arrange a late check-out."

John did try, but couldn't swing it, and though he knew Sherlock would chew him out for it, he rushed to repack his suitcase, quite a bit less neatly than he would do himself. He grabbed a set of his own clothes and hopped in the shower the second that Sherlock was out, trying to rid himself of the scratchy feeling of sand against his scalp and getting into an argument with Sherlock through the curtain over the necessity of checking out on time, though Sherlock insisted that he could easily cover the expense should it become necessary.

Hair wet and clothes hastily thrown on, they made it to the lobby, panting when they ran into half of his family. All were staring at them, some appraisingly, others unimpressed and a few with amused smiles. Straightening their clothes slightly, neither acknowledged the awkwardness of the situation and joined the queue. John tried to avoid Sherlock's gaze, but couldn't help but to meet his eyes. Almost unintentionally they shared a conspiratorial grin. Their shoulders shook, their faces going red as they struggled not to burst into laughter in the middle of the queue.

They joined his dad for breakfast at a café half a block from the train station. At first, John wondered if he was smiling at him surreptitiously because he had come to the same conclusion as everybody else. He quickly remembered that his dad was much more similar to Sherlock than he was anyone else in their dull little family; he was remarkably intuitive and wonderfully open-minded which had always come across to Harry as indifference.

"Hate to break it to you, but they all think you're gay," his father whispered to him conspiratorially with an arm wrapped around him as they walked to catch their trains, his amusement hiding just below the surface. "I've had at least three old biddies from the wedding asking how I could stand having two gay children."

"And what do you think?" John asked, squinting up at him through half closed eyes, praying they could get a few good hours of sleep on the train home.

"That I've never seen you happier than you were last night. Hold on to that, John." His dad gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and pulled Sherlock in for the same.

"You were right, John. I like your dad quite a bit," Sherlock told him as they parted and headed in the direction of the train back to London, seeming a bit wistful.


	15. Breakfast

A/N: I'm starting to exhaust the cache of writing I'd stored up, so feel free to leave prompts in the reviews… No promises that I'll take them on, but if they strike my fancy, I'll certainly credit you for them!

**BREAKFAST**

John Watson very nearly had a heart attack when he came downstairs one humid August morning and found a full English breakfast sitting on the kitchen table. Yes, the kitchen table. The kitchen turned science lab was spotless and looked like… well, like a kitchen. Come to think of it – bloody hell! The entire flat was spotless in a way that made John wonder if he'd stumbled upon some alternate universe where he lived with a flatmate that actually cleaned up after himself. He wondered what else would be different. Would he still be a detective or would he perhaps be a teacher or office worker? Maybe Sherlock would be blonde or fat or… was that bacon?

Slipping a piece off the tray in the centre of the table, he realised that none of the pots and pans in the sink were dirty. A full meal such as this would be cold by the time all the dishes were finished. No, this had been a take away. Unless Mrs. Hudson brought it up from her flat.

"Sherlock?" John called and, turning back towards the living area, realised with a start his flatmate had snuck up on him for the seventy-sixth time. Yes, John did have an odd habit of keeping track of the number of times his flatmate did unexpected things (a decidedly _long_ list), but having known the man for only four months, he was still a bit of a mystery.

"John." Sherlock gave one of those smiles that only lasted a moment but transformed his face dramatically. His eyebrows darted up and down and he rocked back and forth on his heels. John immediately checked his pupil size and deemed it normal. That was certainly _ab_normal. He'd seen Sherlock do extraordinarily complex and detailed things in the span of only a few hours while working a case. He'd watched Sherlock sit and stare at the bullet-riddled wall for hours while bored. He'd also seen the opposite.

What John had yet to witness was Sherlock cleaning anything. Not in either a manic or depressed mood. Neither the chiding or near begging of either John or Mrs. Hudson had made any difference. But here he was with breakfast and he'd cleaned and…

Uh-oh…

"Shall we?" Sherlock pulled out a chair for him to sit in but, quickly very suspicious, he took his own seat. John checked to make sure that anything he ate, Sherlock had also taken some of. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to dose his food. Frankly, he was a bit surprised it hadn't happened yet.

Things were a bit quiet, as they were prone to be after a fight the previous night. Not in a hostile way, but in an "I'm not sure where we stand yet" type. John didn't believe for a second that this was a nice way of apologizing to him. Sherlock hadn't backed down from the fight and wouldn't feel any need to make amends. If anything, John really should have, as it was Sherlock's business whether he wanted to take up smoking again, though not inside their flat…

Finally, John having had enough of the silence and neither of them having fetched the paper yet, he spoke what was on his mind. "Sherlock, where did all of this come from?"

"Gino's John, I would have thought you'd seen the containers in the bin," Sherlock seemed as if he was trying very hard not to sound patronizing.

"I don't mean the shop, Sherlock, I mean where did this," John spread his hands to indicate the entire flat, "come from? I didn't even know you knew _how_ to clean!" Damn it, he should have checked the bins.

Sherlock was silent for a few moments and John's apprehension grew. Not his favourite jumper… Not his gun… He could probably handle it if the laptop broke, but Sherlock would need to help him replace it. Sarah hadn't given him a whole lot of work lately since they broke up. He hadn't thought her to be the bitter type when he'd asked her out.

"Mrs Hudson suggested that I be nicer to you," Sherlock tried to look unemotional, but under the surface there was a hopefulness Sherlock was trying desperately not to show him.

"Well… yes, that part doesn't surprise me. She can hear raised voices from her flat, so she knows when we've been arguing."

"Yes, and since we seem to be doing that a bit more recently, it seemed like perhaps I should," Sherlock pressed his lips down and looked up in that, 'is this how people show remorse?' kind of way.

In some ways, John didn't really mind the fighting. They argued, but at least neither of them had any problem expressing their issues with one another. John had shared flats with blokes who never once addressed an issue, and they'd never lasted longer than six months of quiet passive aggressive annoyance at one another. Sherlock wasn't one to hold back, and John saw no reason for himself to either.

"I appreciate it, Sherlock. Are you sure that's all?" John was still half certain he was going to end the conversation with a quick "Oh, and I shot the Telly…"

"Yes… I've… grown attached to sharing a flat with you, John. I didn't want to do anything that would cause you to feel as though you should leave…"

John hadn't once thought that he should leave Baker Street. He'd somehow managed to find a life here that was exciting and entertaining and wasn't lonely. And despite what Sherlock thought, that wasn't in spite of his crazy flatmate, it was because of him. Mrs Hudson was a wonderful landlady and he couldn't beat the rent. More than that, he'd found a purpose here. One he hoped would last.

"Sherlock, you did this because you don't want me to leave? What gave you the impression that I would leave?" John asked and immediately noticed the change in his flatmate. Sherlock looked so crestfallen it made him seem a young child.

After a long moment, Sherlock looked up, seeming as vulnerable as a helpless kitten. "Everyone does, John. Eventually."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving. I hadn't even thought of it. And why would I? You're a crazy bastard, but you certainly keep things around here interesting. Though it is nice when you do a bit of picking up around the flat. It's all your stuff anyway..."

"Ah," Sherlock muttered, and seemed to be relieved to the point of being moved. Getting to his feet in a clear desire to leave as quickly as possible, he strode back towards his bedroom. Just as the door was about to shut, he called out. "Oh, erm... I attempted to do a load of wash and... you may be missing a few articles of clothing. I'll replace them."

"My beige jumper!?"

"Of course not, John. I could never replace that. I'm having it sewn back together. It will be good as new in a week!" Sherlock closed the door before he could hear the loud guttural groan.


	16. Sleeping

A/N: Sorry about the wait. I've been trying to get my college stuff together. Thanks so much for the fantastic response and all of the suggestions. They were great! Keep them coming…

**SLEEPING**

When he thinks back, years later, to when their relationship first shifted, John finds he isn't able to point to one thing in particular. That he can't quite pin down the moment when they'd gone from flatmates to friends. From colleagues to 'hetero-life-partners', regardless of how much disdain he feels for the phrase. In truth, it's not something he thinks about all that much. Still, from time to time when he wakes up in the middle of the night, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's complete lack of personal boundaries but shifting slightly to make room for the madman in his bed, he thinks back to the first time and tries to figure out how he'd gotten from there to here.

It had been about 14 months into their partnership when John found himself on the wrong end of a knife. They'd been pursuing a murder for nearly three days, always two steps behind him. He was the sort that Sherlock became giddy about; the crafty criminally insane sort that saw no difficulty in slitting someone's throat for no other reason than because it made him happy. Sherlock had been after this guy for years, nay, decades, as he told him. Houdini, Sherlock called him once or twice, though the rest of the NSY referred to him as the comeback killer. Even under the strict surveillance of 24 hour security and monitoring, the killer always managed to return to the crime scene and deliver a solitary black rose. And nobody knew how.

Sherlock had looked at the case from every different angle. He had tried chasing him down, setting traps, forensics, M.O.s, he had investigated every laboratory in Britain that manipulated rose genes, had tracked down all distributors and had nearly gotten himself sent to prison for impersonating an officer – Lestrade of course, who had worked with Mycroft to get him off the charges. This was John's second encounter with Houdini, who always had an escape plan at the ready no matter what scenario he had gotten himself into.

It was at a country home where they finally found him, with a garden full of black roses and neighbours who reported that they saw him once a day to fetch the paper; that he opened his shades part way and closed them at exactly the same time at night; that he never spoke to anyone and that he had aroused the suspicions of just about everyone in the small community.

They had been investigating the house, drawn in by the lack of car and a report from a house-bound elderly neighbour that the suspect had left the house that morning unexpectedly.

The cellar, which John had been eager to investigate ("he's too smart to leave anything down there. He knows that's the first place anyone will look…") had turned up nothing, as he'd expected.

John pocketed his torch as he got to the top of the steps, checking his phone and finding the direction to search the downstairs bathroom. Shutting the cellar door behind him, he couldn't get any sort of grasp about what happened next. He felt the sudden jerking, ripping pain and his vision went white. Whatever it was entered his side and he knew immediately that it had pierced his liver. He gasped for breath between screams and collapsed, the penknife still lodged in his side. He didn't even notice banging his head against the tile, in too much pain already and instantly falling unconscious.

He woke up and Sherlock was sitting beside him, reading the paper. Two days had passed, he realised as he skimmed the front page. _Suspected Murderer Bludgeoned to Death in Home_. He turned his eyes skyward and wondered how the hell Mycroft is going to get him out of this one.

"Lestrade knows… I had him on back-up. He drove you to the hospital but you lost quite a bit of blood. Not _quite_ as much as Lucas Mason, however. And yes, he was the killer. He told me he would take care of it. I trust he and my brother will settle it." Sherlock said, rapidly tapping out a few doses of morphine.

John didn't speak; could barely breathe from pain and felt the morphine seeming to hit him all at once. As he drifted away on a sea of narcotics, he decided to leave the messy business in Sherlock's hands, for once too exhausted to worry about the younger man.

Lestrade dropped by later that night, subtly informing him that Sherlock hadn't sleep at all while John was unconscious, and when Sherlock was asked to leave the room while John was bathed and changed, the nurse let him know they had been under special orders to allow him to stay as long as he liked and that he'd not yet left.

Three days passed by and he was reluctantly released, hardly able to walk and still in such pain. He felt unbearably nauseous from the medication, finding he can't quite remember it being this horrible upon his first rehabilitation. At home, it was as though they were still in hospital for all the time that Sherlock sat at his bedside. Except he also had to play nurse and was shockingly capable.

And Sherlock did not sleep. Not once that John had seen.

He woke up one night and found the detective kneeling slumped beside John's bed, an arm spayed beside his head, looking more like he'd passed out than fallen asleep. He shook the man awake and told him in no uncertain terms that, for the love of god, he needed to get some proper rest.

He didn't react when Sherlock got to his feet, cracking that elegant swan-like neck of his, and climbed in beside him. They laid stiff for a few elongated moments of uncertainty, both waiting for John's response. Between the pain, exhaustion and opioids, nothing about this felt real. He thought back on that night they'd spent together on the sofa, John feverishly huddled against Sherlock's chest, feeding off the heat of both their bodies and wondered why the torrent of thought seemed to slow to sap.

The words that jumped automatically to his mouth became stuck in his oesophagus and he heard them come out in a jumble of syllables unrecognizable as words. He adjusted himself, feeling a magnetic push and pull between the pulse of their bodies like an electric current, uncomfortable and hypnotic all at once. Sherlock was close enough to feel the heat of his body and the slowing rise and fall of his chest, just far enough that they aren't at risk of touching unnecessarily. He was on his back, uncomfortable with the position and knew that he'd need to turn completely over to get into a position where he feels settled and the recent stab wound isn't irritated.

_Fuck it_, he thought, because this was his bed, damn it, and he'd sleep whichever way he wanted, and since when had either of them been impeded by personal space and boundaries anyway? The man had killed someone for him not days ago. If he was bothered by John sprawling himself over him then he could get out and sleep in his own damn bed, couldn't he?

With a grunt, John turned over and pressed his head against the space between his flatmate's shoulder and neck, wondering how it was possible that it could feel like that spot was custom made to cushion John's head, and sidled closer, situating himself so that he was actually comfortable for once in the past week and letting out a sleepy huff. He wondered passively how this was going to end up, telling himself he didn't care either way.

He tensed, feeling an arm coming up to cushion his uninjured side; waiting for the resistance without breathing and hoped it wasn't going to be too awkward. That he won't have to hear the derision in Sherlock's voice. Instead he heard a quiet sound. Contentment. Dear god, was it even possible for Sherlock to make that noise when there weren't dead bodies present?

He didn't have long to feel satisfaction, for the second his body senses it can relax, it ushers him back in to a state of unconsciousness, Sherlock keeping him fixed in place against him.

He woke three times to find the still prone and drowsing body beneath his and shook off the urge to escape this incriminating position. He was bedridden for the next three days at least; he may as well be comfortable. He slept on and off until the early afternoon and wondered how he could feel so restful and comfortable with a stab wound.

* * *

It's something they almost never talked about, at least not in words.

When enough time passes, John wonders when exactly he'd stopped the internal diatribe about _why_ he was allowing this to happen and started rolling over half asleep to press his forehead against the other man's shoulder. He imagines that it's likely around the same time he'd conceded to sharing his life and his bed with another man, but such was the way the universe worked. You never got what you thought you deserved. But life found a way of giving you just what you needed.


End file.
